Stale M&M's: The Easy Part
by notmuchmoretosay
Summary: SECOND in series - SE5B. "Yeah. Boys like me don't belong to the rain. Boys like me don't belong to the fire either. Boys like me are for after the storm is over, for when the rain and the fire and lightning have done their bit, and the world is coming back to life again." Credit to cover art goes to @train-wreck101 on Tumblr
1. It's Better Now

This is the sequel to **Stale M&amp;M's.** I suggest reading that first if you haven't already, but it's not terribly confusing to go ahead and start here, you'll eventually get filled in.

_The beautiful fanart as seen above was drawn by a brilliantly talented friend of mine. Find him on Tumblr - _**train-wreck101**

Following the show from season 5 part 2

NC-17 for gore, cussing, violence, sensitive subjects and romantic themes (Not smut)

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

_It's dead.  
__Silent._

_The whole world.  
__Deadly silent._

_Struggling man has got to move.  
__Struggling man, no time to lose.  
__I'm a struggling man, and I've gotta move on.  
__I'm a struggling man, and I've gotta move on._

I jolt awake.

The air inside the truck smells musky and stale, like feet. I take it in to get rid of the imaginary iron smell of blood. Ghosts don't just trick your eyes. They trick your nose, too. And your ears. And hands. I think it's blood under them, until I realise it's Carl's chest, breathing steady and thumping.

I'm still paralysed.

_Do nightmares kill you?  
**No, that's stupid.**_

Carl's heartbeat. Carl's heartbeat. I am okay. I. _Am._ Okay. Cool. Cool. Yeah, it's easy to be sure of it when I've got his heartbeat against mine. His is speeding up, or mine is slowing down. That happens, too. Sometimes Carl and I are like anatomy mirrors. We'll reach for the same gauze or check both ways the same way at the same time before stepping out into the road. He'll yawn and I'll yawn. I'll kiss him and he'll kiss me back.

_**Stupid.**_

I let myself melt back into him. His breath is warm inside my beanie hat.

Michonne sleeps a few feet beside us, laid across the bench seat of the truck, breathing steadily. I watch her necklace, the silver _M_ catching the moonlight when she breathes. I reach into my pocket and grab the pink watch that belonged to the girl who still haunts my nightmares with her little sister. The glass catches the moon, too, if I angle it right. I can't see what time it is.

"Try to sleep."

Startled, I look up at him. Carl Grimes. The boy I've only known for four months. The boy I've somehow fallen in love with.

_**Stupid, stupid, stupid.**_

He runs the heel of his palm over my shoulder-blade. I put Lizzie's watch back in my pocket and turn over to wrap my arm around his middle. He pulls me to him, gently, because for one, his fractured knuckle is still healing, and two, my cracked ribs and bullet wound are healing, too. We're both doing a lot better. My collarbone's already scabbing.

"Nightmare."

He didn't ask so I don't answer, just feel; he's dragging the edge of his cast over my shoulder. I like that. His chest smells of sweat and dirt and sweetcorn - he spilled a can over his shirt yesterday morning on accident.

I try not to think about my nightmare.

I don't do a very good job.

It's been a week since leaving Grady. Almost three since Beth and I were shot. Since being on the road, I've had the same nightmare almost every night. I'm always at the Grove. Always running through the forest. Always chased by the dead. I'll find the house. Beth will be singing softly and she, Lizzie and Mika will be waiting inside for me. But it's too late every time.

Every.

Time.

_It's better now, _they tell me.

Carl sighs through my beanie. "Try to sleep, Oliver."

My fingers tighten into his shirt, nodding into him. I shut my eyes. Sync our breath. Fall, fall, fall into sleep again.

* * *

Hunger is a common side affect of the end of the world.

We're running dangerously low on supplies, too, so, it's time to loot. Which is what we're doing now, in some small, local type dollar-store, scoping over the isles for anything that looks useful or edible.

We've been on our way to Richmond, Virginia, headed to Noah's home in Shirewilt Estates. We're just about half way now. Following maps. Switching vehicles when ours dies. Carol likes it. She says sitting and doing nothing while the world speeds past makes her nervous. So she reads maps.

We're somewhere near a town called Gaffney, going around it. We've been using highways as little as possible so the travel's been a little tougher and longer. It reminds me of being on the road with Patrick. My brother and I'd take neglected cars and travel what felt like every goddamn country lane in the world. Pat's driving was terrifying. Luckily though, Abraham is usually a much more careful driver... usually.

I still kind of miss the fire-truck. We had to leave it a while back. I'd quickly fallen in love with it. Who doesn't love a fire-truck?

"Think it's clear," Rick announces.

"Clear here, too."  
"And here."  
"Yeah, jus' a few geeks in the back."  
"We took'm out."

Rick, Michonne, Maggie and Glenn take the far end of the store–_Food and Water._ Sasha, Tyreese and Gabriel take the opposite end–_Clothes_. I'm in the few aisles next door with Carl, Tara and Judith, scoping over _Toiletries and Health Products_. Daryl, Carol, Noah, Eugene, Rosita and Abraham have the next few aisles over–_Appliances and Equipment_. We work with little to no rush, what with the low walker count around this area. We aren't letting our guard down. We're just resting our arms for a little while.

Spirits.

Are.

Lifted.

"Toss in a few soap bars," Tara tells me.

"We'll need a whole fire-truck full," I say.

"Smart ass."

I snicker and scoop an armful in. We're using shopping carts. What's even better: I'm using the children's seat for Judith. She has a dog chew to play with. I know, but the baby section was coated in blood. Luckily the formula and diapers were packeted and tinned so they weren't contaminated.

Judith's having the time of her life. Every time the shopping cart moves she doesn't stop giggling for anything.

Tara grabs an armful of sanitary towels and tampons from the shelf in front of her, throwing them in. I push the cart along the aisle, positioning it wherever anyone needs me, earning a chorus of giggles and squeals.

I'm getting kissed on the cheek when Carl swivels around to get to a shelf on the other side of me. He acts like nothing happened. I roll my eyes... tilt my head. It's just that Carl's bent over to grab the stuff from the shelves. What? View's not bad.

Someone pulls my sleeve.

Tara.

"Did you hear me?"

"Huh?"

"I'm gonna head to the other side." Her eyebrow is cocked. I blush. She keeps talking: "Think I saw some hand-warmers over there. You two okay goin' over this aisle?"

Carl stands up, toilet rolls in his arms, "Yeah."

We watch her head around the corner and when Carl turns to me his eyebrows are up. I can barely see them under his fringe and hat. I can't help the shy smile on my face, even now, worried I look goofy.

"So," he says. Recently, his voice got considerably lower. Mine keeps cracking up all over the place. _So... _"Thought any more about what we talked about?"

"Erm. Well, we talk about a lot of things," I say. "Science Dog..."

Carl's adamant that the mutant dog-man is totally awesome.

"...what's better out of corn or one-hundred-and-twelve-ounces of pudding..."

He says corn. But it's pudding, obviously.

"...when it'll rain next."

Soon, most likely, if I know Virginian weather at all.

"Oh, and who's got the biggest co-"

He jerks forward and covers my mouth with both hands. "Not _that._ God, Oliver."

I laugh into his palms and pull them down. "I was gonna say comic book collection."

I do. Only two graphic novels I found in a car last week, and Carl's technically got two, too –the _Invincible _comic Tara gave us and a four page X-Men Mutant Ability List manual, but I'm not sure if a manual counts. So, yeah, mine's bigger.

"I'm talking about Lorton," he says, looking red cheeked and spooked.

I knew this.

"Have you?"

"Have I what?"

He sighs impatiently. "Have you thought about going back to your home?"

Carl and I talked about it again a few days ago – going back to Lorton to put down my parents. It turns out _one day_ is beginning to mean _damn well soon_. Not today or tomorrow or even a week from now, but a lot sooner than I was expecting. Procrastinating, again, I grab a few aspirin tablets and drop them in the cart – Maggie's been having head aches.

Carl sighs again. I look at him.

"Not really," I confess. "Well, _yes._" I think about it every day. "But, uh... I just, don't think your dad'll let it happen, you know?"

Carl crosses his arms.

**_Oh boy, it's happening. He's finally had enough of your shit._**

His expression, like this, usually means: _You're really annoying sometimes._ He says, "It's kinda impossible to know that unless you actually get the balls to ask."

"I'll _ask,_ okay?" I say. "One day. Just, maybe when he's in a good mood. Like when he's tired or something, you know? _Suggestible._ Then he'll say yes to it."

Carl's grin explodes over his face.

"He's always tired," he says, serious, "we all are. But we're never gonna be _suggestible_. Not out here. You either ask soon or you never will."

I'm shrugging, procrastinating, pushing Judith a little way down the aisle. She laughs but when I stop she lets out a growl. I press my palm against her face and she scowls at me, squealing and pushing my hand away. When I don't move it, she sort of gives up and sits there, frowning into my palm. Carl's watching. I open my mouth to speak to him but that's when Judith bites me.

"_Ack!_" I yank my hand away and rub the small dent marks. She snickers. "Okay, fine. Guess I deserved that."

Carl's still watching me, waiting for me to get back to his topic.

"Richmond's still over ninety miles south of Lorton, right?" I say. "If Shirewilt's still intact, which, I really, really hope it is, then there's no chance your dad'll risk us going all that way north just to put a bullet between my parents' eyes..." I trail and grab some hair ties, throwing them into the cart, too.

"I know..."

Carl's waiting for me to look at him again. I don't. He brings a thumb to my chin, pulls.

"But if..." He's whispering. "If Shirewilt's overrun, or gone, _then_ will you ask him?"

Without looking, I rest my hand on an object on the shelf and sighing. Also grimace. "Do I have to?" The impatience on Carl's face is obvious. "I mean, wouldn't it sound better coming from you? His son?"

"I'm not handing over the pecans this time."

My eyes roll and I turn and walk away. "Fucking knew I'd never live that down." Only he's grabbed my flannel, tugged. I look at the grin on his face. He reaches forward and brushes a part of my fringe away from my eyelashes. My hair must look crazy.

"Ask him yourself," he whispers. "Okay?"

I moan dramatically and shut my fingers around the object on the shelf. Carl looks.

"Is that supposed to be a hint?"

"Huh?" I ask. His eyes shift to the object in my hand again. I look up. Let go. Flinch. "Oh! Oh. N-no. I didn't..."

He chuckles, taking the box of condoms and reading the label. "Not exactly subtle, Oliver."

"I didn't realise what it was," I say, blushing.

"Wait, are we supposed to use these?"

I'm amazed I haven't burst out laughing. "Um, well." I'm stuttering. "We haven't, you know, um... done it."

"Yeah I know," he nods. He shows me what it says on the box about oral and I blush harder.

"Oh," I say. "Well, guess we could... you know, uh, if you wanted."

Carl's smirking. He puts them back. "Okay."

I'd picked a quiet few minutes to explain, well, _The Method _to him a while ago. I hadn't intended to. We were sat on a wall outside an old police office while most of the others were searching inside for ammo. Carl just suddenly came out with it: _"How're we actually gonna do it?" _Plain and simple. Blunt. I knew he already knew there was more to it all than what we did together that morning in Grady. To what extent he knew, I wasn't sure. So I asked and he told me. I had to look away. I had to grip the wall with both hands. I was scared I'd burst out laughing or crying or... I didn't know... _something! _But I pulled myself together and told him the stuff he didn't know in private. It was awkward, I'll admit that. _Very _awkward. Half of it I'd never said aloud before, and the other half just mostly consisted of trying to say it without cracking up or distracting myself in the thought of it all. I'll give him what it's worth. I didn't have to explain much. I just went into a more detailed (and realistic) breakdown of it all. Hell, I only know what I do because of what I'd looked up on the internet. School told us about sex, but not the kind of sex _I_ spent most of my time thinking about.

Now though?  
Now he's laughing.

"What?"

"Um, nothing..." His nose scrunches up. "It's just... they're flavoured."

"Oh, um..." I'm not sure how much more my face can take before it ends up burning right off. "Yeah... that's a thing, too."

This really makes us laugh.

"I'm not so sure this'll count for any type of nutritional value though. Even if they are. . . _'Cherry Berry Flavoured'._"

Laugh, laugh, laugh.

"I just, you know, figured we wouldn't need to worry," I explain, "since we, um... well, we've never, you know. So, we don't have any infections or anything, and, you know, we can't get pregnant, so..." I've accepted having to be the one to tell him about this stuff. Doesn't make me any less awkward about it.

He's laughing again.

"What? H-hey, what?"

"Nothing. Just, image in my head."

"God, I don't wanna know, man."

He shakes his head in agreement, grinning. Then he's slipping his arms around my middle. I swear, a herd of walkers would have trouble making my smile go away. My heartbeat picks up, as does my breathing. It stings my ribs, but I feel too good to care.

"Oliver?"

I'm nodding.

"Can I kiss you now?"

Carl can make my heart skip an entire beat. He can ask just one question, and I'll forget where my tongue is. I don't answer him, instead I'm closing the gap between us, kissing him. His hat tumbles off. I catch it behind his back, hold it there. It was in the way anyway.

I think about that morning in Grady all the time. All the time. To distract myself, sometimes I have to think about walkers and soccer, or I'll play Carl at _Rock, Paper, Scissors_ (he can only choose paper with his cast-hand, but he plays with me anyway). Distracting ourselves usually works, bar a few times, like now.

I remember we're not alone, evident from the sudden squeal beside us from the baby Grimes. Carl stops. I stop. The whole world is a hormone hurricane. He looks like he's just ran a race. I hand him back his hat and he puts it on.

"Come on," I say. I don't know what I'd do if he said anything. I don't know what I'd do if he were to touch me. We head off without talking.

Nearly everyone has collected by the tills. Something taps my shoulder. Tyreese. He hands me a book.

"_August_ by Bernard Beckett. Thanks, Ty."

"There was more," he tells me, taking Judith from our cart, "but I figured it'd hold you out for a little while."

I still haven't finished _Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn_. I hardly had time so far. Yes, most of our journey's been by car, which is usually hours and hours a day sitting doing nothing, and I'd intended to read during, but it wasn't even ten minutes after we'd left Atlanta before Abraham had to stop the fire-truck so I could clamber out to yack over the curb. It felt like throwing up everything I'd ever eaten since _birth_. When we do stop, it's usually nightfall, so I only have the fire as light and I'm always exhausted anyway, so, I guess I've just given up reading until further notice.

_I'm kind of glad this has been my main problem since we left the hospital.  
__**Yeah, there's an awful lost worse things you could be worried about.**__  
But with there being no immediate threat anymore...  
__**Apart from the walkers – which'll always be true.  
**__...it's just nice to just be mad about not having enough reading time._

"I still feel weird walking out without paying," Tara admits with a pallid smile. "Especially since there's a cop watching me."

"I think you get an exception this time," Rick smiles at her, then addresses everyone else. "Alright, everybody got what we're lookin' for?"

We nod in a random chorus of _Yes's_ and blurts of odd objects and supplies we'd picked up, or just a low grunt like Daryl.

"Good, let's move out."

* * *

We get another seven or so miles to another town called Blacksburg, around two or three-hundred miles from Richmond. We're parked at a lake, off the road. Gabriel spotted it, noticing the water surface against the setting sun through the trees. We all do a perimeter check, then, as satisfied as possible, we set up camp by the shore.

"Kinda reminds me of the quarry," Carl says, mostly to himself. We're in our underwear. My toes dig into the cold pebbles, breathing in the chill lake air. Rick, standing between Carl and I, glances at his son, resting his hand on his shoulder in that way he always does. It makes Carl sigh.

"C'mon, wash up," Rick says. His drawl gets stronger when he's tired. "Stay close to shore."

"We can't swim?"

"Could be something in the water. Make sure you can see your feet."

Judith, on my hip, shivers. Carl and I start washing, wading in to our knees. The lake's low, due to the drought.

"It's cold." Carl is chanting it.

"Jesus fuck." I'm chanting this.

"Language," Carol reprimands from the shore, pulling off her jeans.

"Sorry," I grunt.

Quickly, and with sharp gasps and stifled curses, I mostly just try to do something about my hair. Sometimes I really hate having wavy hair. I know that it's a dumb thing to be vain about, considering, but being only fifteen it's hard for someone to take me seriously anyway, and it doesn't help when on top of that I look like a pre-pubescent neanderthal.

Carl's fair, on the other hand, always looks good. It's barbaric how handsome someone can look even when they haven't showered in weeks. The ends flick out in every direction and it's long enough now to touch his shoulders. He can still run his fingers through it without threatening to lose one of them. He can still stand in the sunset with the wind swooshing around him and look like a seraph.

_Jesus fuck._

I used to call it _aesthetically pleasing, _but it really is more than that. Black magic, I blame it on. Also just a really, really lucky case of fortunate genes. His mother had smooth dark hair, too. My hair's after my father's, but he always kept his hair short and never had my problem. I struggle so badly combing it with my fingers that Carl has to take Judith.

She doesn't much like the cold either. Carl and I wash her as quickly and humanely possible, then wrap her up in about one-hundred layers of towels and blankets. Ty coos her to sleep in one of the cars that has heating. I really love heating.

Some of the others get in the water, too, all going about washing as quickly as we can, and plus, sure, we're a close knit group, but we still value privacy, which is something we've hardly hand any of in our time on the road together. Swear to God, the amount of times I've seen more than just a side boob or someone's morning wood is more than I ever need to admit. But no one outwardly complains. I guess we're just getting used to it really. Which is both a blessing and a curse.

_More a curse.  
__**Yeah, a lot more a curse.**_

* * *

It's canned or packeted something for supper, eating around the fire. I chose macaroni and cheese. Carl, obviously, chose corn again. Judith had a bottle of formula, and Tyreese couldn't say no to her puppy dog eyes and gave her some of his canned cherries, too, which she made more of an effort to turn into gloop rather than eat. I don't blame her. I hate the taste of cherry, too. I love the smell, though.

I've been skimming through my pun book. Michonne tosses a small twig at me across the flames. I look up. I'd been grinning my head off. "Huh?"

"Got any to share?" she asks.

I smirk, flipping back through pages. "Well, yeah." I laugh then, a light bulb flicking on in my brain. "But I can't read it. Mr. Porter, could you?"

By now everyone is used to my puns, or, rather, they tolerate them. It's kind of something to lift the mood, and for the most part it usually does. I don't normally drag others into it. Not until now. So, naturally, confusion crosses Eugene expression when he glances at me from his mixed vegetables. His mouth is full.

"What is it?"

I hand the book over, pointing at the line. "This one, please?"

Everyone's watching, smirks or confused expressions plastered over their faces, apart from Tara. Tara's already laughing her ass off. My pun book's somewhat kind of completely her favourite thing. If I can't find it then she's got it, bar one time: I caught Abraham sneering into the paper back.

"Oliver..." Eugene already read ahead like I was worried he would, his expression suddenly more exasperated than I've ever seen it. "I'm not sure I'm willing to consent to this kind of personal ridicule."

"it's not personal ridicule," I argue. "It's funny."

He narrows his eyes. Tara's still laughing, making _"Kch" _noises. It's make a walker turn and run if one heard her.

"Come on, Mr. Porter?" I beg. "Just read it. Please?"

"Yeah, c'mon, Eugene?" Rosita says, seconded by Glenn, and then Maggie, who smirks. So he sighs, puffing out his cheeks. Eugene's always a good sport, however reluctant. He clears his throat. . .

"_Hmm. That's a good question, let me _mullet _over._"

* * *

**Carl's POV**

It's night-time. We'd finished our food a while ago. Oliver was the first to crash. Even Judith stayed awake longer than him.

"I'm turnin' in," I announce finally, a blanket wrapped around my shoulders.

"Alright," Dad says. "Night."

I tell the rest goodnight, too, I go to the truck. Oliver isn't in here. I keep looking, poking my head into another car window. My sister's inside, asleep with Carol. I'm not sure if she's eaten anything tonight. But there isn't anything I can do to make her. She and the other adults often decide to skip a meal every few days. Oliver and I try to but we always get caught out.

I go to the next car along, smiling when I see a torch light. He's asleep. He said he was going to try to read a little but it looks like he passed out before he got the chance. I open the door, quietly, smiling. Oliver hears me and startles, grabbing for his knife.

"It's me."

"Oh," he sighs.

He turns over. The torch he'd left on his chest rolls to the floor with a thud. I wince when it shines in my eyes, grab it and switch it off. I leave it on the passenger seat. His book lays at an awkward angle behind his back so I pull it from behind him and put it with the torch.

"C'mere a sec," I whisper to him, climbing in.

Oliver tries his best to sit up, but he's so exhausted he's barely able to lift his head.

"It's okay," I whisper, "I got you."

I lift his head and shimmy myself in front of him. He hugs me, burying his face into my throat. I tangle our calves.

"G'night."

He murmurs it back. It sounds more like: "Gun fight, lebra." I think the _lebra_ part was supposed to be a _Love you._

I smile, "Love you, too."

* * *

**Notes**

I hope that was a nice welcome back. Here's to the sequel of Stale M&amp;M's!

Stay beautiful, and as always,  
Happy reading :_)_


	2. What Happened & What's Going On: Breath

_**(Replies to Stale M&amp;M's)**_

**Guest **I do have something else up my sleeve, and people will either love or hate it, but I'm excited.

**DarthGranola **I have to be honest, I think Tara knew exactly what they were doing.

**christian77611 **DID IT AHHHH It took TWO YEARS

**Prettyprincess45 **No review is ever annoying! Thank you.

**enderguest **Thanks!

_**(Replies to The Easy Part)**_

**GoodbyeGreySkies **Thank you! Yeah, he'll put them down, _o__ne day..._

**Guest** I laughed way too hard at your comment.

**The Flash Fanatic **Ah, you have no idea how good it is to know that.

**loyalwolf21 **Goddamn, thank you so much!

**Rolo-chan **I know! It's over! Yes! You and your friend highly influenced this chapter, **Rolo-chan**. I will just say that without you, they would have just been in a field... :D Thank you! Oliver's appearance is mentioned, but it isn't really something he thinks about much so it's kind of something that's difficult to describe in the story. But I'll put it at the end of this review answer section.

**Prettyprincess **Thank you. That really makes me so happy. Again, no review is EVER annoying.

**BloodGutsandChocolatePudding **First of all! Fucking EPIC user name. I feel Oliver would like you. And thanks! :D

**Guest **I haven't stopped listening to that song for days!

**Guest **Thanks!

* * *

**_OLIVER_**

**_Ethnicity:_**_ Caucasian/Italian/Jewish.  
_**_Completion: _**_Light brown-olive skin. Tanned__._**_  
Hair:_** _Brown,__ wavy, messy, a little shorter than Carl's. A little side burn/mustache stubble._**_  
Eyes: _**_Brown with goldish flecks.__ Big eyes._**_  
Face: _**_Thin lips and face.__ Under-bite.__ Crooked smile._**_  
Physique: _**_Lanky, slim, currently underweight from being on the road.__ Soft, average boyish muscle tone._**_  
Height: _**_Roughly the same height as Carl, but who's taller changes all the time as they grow._**_  
Scars: _**_1 thick one on__ his right temple from The Governor.__ 1 jagged scar across his abdomen from the fall of the Prison. 1 thin scar across he left side of his lips from the Claimer. 1 bullet scar just below his left collarbone from Dawn._**_  
_****_Miscellaneous: _**_Small birthmark behind his ear.__ Has acne. His resting expression naturally looks sad and miserable. He frowns a lot, even if he's not upset._

**_For a visual, see the drawings created by several lovely humans over _**_**on tumblr under the tags **_Oliver De Luca **_and _**Stale M&amp;M's **_and _**Caliver

* * *

**"Dressed in Black" by Sia**

* * *

**Carl's POV**

We'd left the lake ten days ago for Richmond. Supplies are getting low, but that's not news. There will be news though, today. . .

A grave will be dug.

"We look not at what can be seen, but we look at what cannot be seen. For what can be seen, is temporary, but what cannot be seen is eternal."

Gabriel's eulogy will be heart wrenching. To stop myself from breaking, I'll focus on Judith's tiny hand wrapped around my thumb, her pulse against my skin. The grief will be drowning.

"For we know that if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God. A house not made with hands. Eternal. In the Heavens..."

Through my tears, I'll watch his beanie. It'll be grey and bloody and empty of its owner, hanging from the cross over his grave.

"In the Heavens."

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

McDonald's.

We got here last night. There's a gas station next door, across from an empty highway. We didn't want to take this route, but after a close call with a herd a little way south, we had to take a diversion, and it brought us here safely.

Some sacrifices only make sense once they work out, I guess.

There 's no gas. There was a sign outside over the pump that read:

_'TAKE WHAT YOU NEED. GOD SAVE US ALL.'_

I thought Gabriel would throw up when he saw it.

But anyway, yes, McDonald's.

I loved fast food, before. But I didn't eat much. Mom was one of those health-fanatic parents that eat avocados on toast instead of butter and only let her kids have candy on Halloween and Easter. She made us eat brown bread instead of white. And in the last few months, she stocked up on so much fruit bread I was sick of the stuff. I used to complain about, but after getting a glimpse at the deep-fat-fryers in the kitchen and the mouldy candy out back last night, I understand.

There were a few lurkers. Took them out easy. The place was looted already, even the condiments stands were bare. The gas station had a few gum packets that we shared for the hell of it. Our breath is so fresh. And at one point I broke open a drinks' machine for some water, but all I got was an asthma attack from the mould cloud that erupted in my face.

Carol put me in the recovery position, and I had my inhaler, so after I passed out for a while I was okay again. I hadn't seen Carl so terrified since waking up from my coma all those weeks ago.

Now though, we're all collected in the restaurant at a long table. The seats are green and red and cracked and mouldy. Judith keeps picking at them and trying to put the flakes in her mouth. I give her a few crayons and a colour-me-in paper.

"Alright," Rick says. "Richmond isn't ten miles more. We're goin' today - Noah, Michonne, Ty, Glenn, and me. Check it out before the rest of y'all come along."

I'm holding my breath. My hopes are up for this. Shirewilt Estates. Can't help it. Carl's notices. He gives me a look. I remember to breathe again. "We don't have to be pessimistic," he's told me, "but we do have to be _realistic._"

"We've got the walkie-talkies."

Grady gave them to us.

"The range's around thirty miles. Shouldn't be a problem to keep in touch. Try to keep it on you." Rick gives Carol the walkie-talkie and a set of extra batteries. "Jus' in case."

She nods. "When're you goin'?"

"Noon. Back before sunset."

We all nod.

"Alright, let's get ready."

* * *

A little while later I'm setting Judith down in her cool box, and I hear Tyreese call out to me. "Oliver."

"Hey."

He walks over and leans against the menu board. By his head is a list of various burger prices. _Big Mac, _always my choice. I climb up on the counter and sit, sure I don't nudge Judith's cool box.

"How you doing?" he asks me. "It's been a while since we talked much."

It's true. We've been around each other for weeks, but after Terminus, we just haven't had much to talk about. Sometimes just knowing someone's around is enough. Sometimes you go through something with someone, and it's hard to be around them at all anymore. I think both these scenarios are true for Ty and I.

"Get a start on _August_ yet?"

"Not yet," I say. "I'm still reading Tom and Huck."

Tyreese looks sad.

I must, too.

Hard to be around, see. Sometimes sad is like a cloud, comes out of nowhere, never really goes away, always some of it around somewhere.

"You keep her watch. Lizzie's."

I look at him and blink.

"And Mika's bracelet," he adds. He smiles, like it's funny rather than devestating. "Most of the time you don't even realise you're holding them."

"I didn't steal them," is all I can think to say.

"I know."

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, silver bracelet. It's singed.

_**Karen's.**_

It's not just me. Keeping something close to protect a memory. _Their_ memory.

"I know," he repeats, quieter this time. He pushes his thumbnail across the engravings, then puts it back in his pocket. "I know, Oliver."

"I..." My voice catches. I try again. "I dream about them. Almost every night. They're always there. It's always too late."

"Me, too."

I sniff and look at the tear in my jeans. Under my breath, I say, "The people who are living are haunted by the dead."

Tyreese looks up at me slowly.

"We are who we are," I go on, even though every word tastes like poison. "And, we do what we do, because, they're still here. In our heads. In the forest. The whole world's haunted now. And there's no getting out of it. Not... Not, until we're dead."

Tyreese is staring at me. I don't know what he's thinking.

"I was there." I'm crying. "I was supposed to watching them. I'm _so_ sorry. . ."

The next thing I know is that Tyreese is hugging me. His hugs are warm and strong. His arms feel like that feeling I got when Flame walked with me out of the paddock, like she could crush me if she wanted, except she didn't.

"I know that you want to forget," I hiccup. "But I can't. I have to keep remembering them. They're still here. Teaching me so – so that I can live with myself."

He pulls away to look at me. I sit on my hands and settle my breath again.

"It's okay," he whispers, bent down with his hands on his knees to look me in the eye. "You can remember. I'm jus' not strong enough."

"You are," I sniff. "If you weren't, you wouldn't have made it this far."

He sighs. He looks funny crouch-bent like that, so I reach out and tug him to stand straight again. He stands next to me. Even though I'm sitting on the counter, Tyreese is two feet taller.

"What happened, at the grove," he says, "it was always gonna happen, Oliver. There was nothin' we coulda done to change it."

He sighs.

"It went the way it had to. The way it was always going to. My dad used to call it _payin' the high cost o' livin'._"

_Yeah, _I think, _but what if I'm not ready to pay the bill?_

Tyreese holds my shoulder. Tyreese has a pair of the safest feeling hands I know.

"You're a good kid, Oliver," he tells me. "You'll be okay. We all will."

I nod, and then there is a whistle from outside.

"Let's head out."

Tyreese gathers his things, tells me, "I'll try to find more books today."

"Thanks. See you, Ty."

"Look after them."

"Yessir."

* * *

I keep watch on the roof. It was once a fantasy of mine to sneak up onto a McDonald's rooftop. I don't know why. But still, I guess it's something I can scribble off my bucket list now. It's pretty anti-climactic, really. There's so much bird crap. At least it gives me a good view. I can see all the way around.

The area looks clear. There's a row of trees behind me, and most everywhere else is flat and green, a few towns in the distance. A mall. Directly ahead is an expanse of woodland, the highway just before. The sky looks clear. There's some cloud in the west but it passed without a drop, and now the sky is blue and pale and streaky. The end of the world made itself look pretty beautiful, really.

I'm tapping my fingers against the handle of my Glock. I gave my machete to Rick shortly after leaving Atlanta. Everyone needed something quiet and for close-combat. Carl got a hunting knife. I have Lizzie's, so I figured Rick could hold on to my machete. I mean, he uses it more than I do.

Abraham and Rosita are in the parking lot, flirting. Daryl's out hunting. Eugene, Tara, Judith, Gabriel, Carol, Sasha, Carl and Maggie are all inside. We have a fire going inside one of the grills.

I hear someone leave the restaurant. I look past the big yellow _M _and watch Carl climb up to me, a bottle of water in his hand. He grunts. I grab his arm and pull.

"Here," he says when he's up. I take the water gratefully and we go sit at my watch post. Back to back. Legs crossed. I drink. Carefully. Water's getting hard to come by lately. I start to worry, except then I think about Carl's back and how well it fits with mine, and I feel better.

We talk a little. Carl thinks the others must be about half way there by now. The topic drops quickly though. I'm playing with Mika's bracelet and Lizzie's watch again. Carl looks. I sigh.

"Tyreese knows about them."

Carl glances at me, smiles. I smile back.

Just then, Carol comes out with a blanket. She tosses it up and Carl and I use it to sit on. "Thanks."

She smiles, and is about to go inside but her coat pocket starts talking.

"_Hey, Carol?"_

Immediately, Carol answers: "I'm here."

Abraham looks over. Rosita, too. Tara, who'd just strolled out of the building, is now focussed on the woman as well, pausing her yoyo tossing.

"_We're half way there,"_ Rick says. _"Just wanted to check the range."_

"Everybody's holding tight," Carol replies. "We've made it five-hundred miles, maybe this can be the easy part."

**_Don't hold your breath._**

"_Gotta think we're due," _Rick says. _"__Give us twenty minutes to check in."_

"If we don't hear from you we'll come looking."

"_Copy that."_

The talkie crackles. Carol heads to the van and comes out with Judith's formula.

"How long should we wait? If, you know, we don't hear from them?" I ask her.

Carol doesn't even look up to answer. "We'll hear from them." She disappears inside the building. I watch the door shut, then lean back against Carl. . .

"Yes, ma'am."

* * *

In the distance is a small herd of horses grazing across a field. Actually, they might be deer. Or maybe dogs. I rub my eyes and squint. Whatever. I'm cool with anything just as long as they won't try to eat us. Just as long as today goes to plan. Just as long as we all hold tight like Carol says, because maybe this really can be the easy part.

Then there's a hand on mine, startling me.

It's Carl.

"_What_?" I snap.

Carl lets go. "You're tapping again."

I look down at my hand under his. I do that, tap: _Thumb, pinky, ring, ring, middle, index, __index__. _Maggie first called me out on it. "What's the song in your head?" Only there wasn't one. I don't know why I do it. It makes my hand ache if I do it long enough. Carl says I've done it for as long as he's known me. Carol, too. They say I do it a lot more now though.

I'm embarrassed and annoyed and kind of just stubborn and dumb. Carl looks disheartened. I hate that about me lately. I can be so mean. It's hard to live in a mean world without turning a little mean yourself.

The worst time though was when I hadn't slept for three days. I told Carl to stop being a bitch for not wanting string beans. He asked me what my problem was and I said I was sorry. I felt terrible. I haven't said anything like that since. I haven't _thought _anything like that since. I don't think I even thought it to begin with. It just came out. When we sat down and talked, Carl told me I probably just needed to jerk off, and I rolled my eyes and buried my face in his chest and said, "I love you." Except it sounded more like, "Uggghhhh." What he said is true though, really, but I don't imagine any of us get a lot of chance for that kind of stuff out here.

I pull my sleeves over my hands. I think about apologising to him. But then Tara is climbing up to us. "I'll take over watch."

"Oh, thanks."

We climb down together. I'm only wincing a little from my ribs. My bullet wound hurts, too. Not too much. As we walk, I decide that instead of taking Carl's good hand, I should switch sides and take his bad hand. It might be feeling left out.

Carl chuckles, squeezes.

I think one of my favourite things about the end of the world is Carl's hands.

He stops. I stop too. Grunt. He's rooting through my pocket. I make a face. He rolls his eyes, then pulls Lizzie and Mika's bracelet and watch out of my pocket. I frown.

"Here."

He picks up my left hand. I help him adjust Mika's bracelet to fit me, since his cast is making it a little hard. He presents the bracelet, then slips it over my wrist. He hesitates with the watch though.

"It's a little small."

I can't help but chuckle. Carl looks disappointed. I kiss his forehead. He looks at me when I pull away. I look at my wrist and twist it around to get a good view of the thin red bracelet there. "I like it."

Carl smiles.

"C'mon," he says, slipping Lizzie's watch back inside my pocket.

* * *

It's getting dangerously close to the twenty minute mark.

I was checking Lizzie's watch too much, getting too antsy, so Carol gives me the hare that'd caught itself in Carl and Michonne's snare this morning. She tells me to skin it. Giving me something to skin is pretty much the equivalent of giving a dog a chew toy. Else I'll start chewing up the furniture.

That's what I'm doing now – the skinning not the chewing. I know how from story time, also observing Daryl's handy-work over the past two and a half weeks on the road.

I finish gutting the _'__cotton tail'_, sitting by Maggie at a table near the bathrooms. She's de-feathering a prairie-chicken Rosita shot earlier. We're working in quiet until Maggie and I take our finished products to the fire. The grill is a little rusty, but the flames are strong.

Carl is playing with Judith. The Happy Meal toy in the summer of the outbreak was The Last Airbender. He got a little Aang figure for her, and Momo. I'm just glad my beanie's having a break from her. She'd started chewing it.

"_Carol? Copy?"_

"We're here," Carol says.

"_We made it. . ."_

Maggie's hand reaches for mine across the grill. She holds her breath.

"_. . . It's gone."_

Suddenly, Carol is holding the walkie-talkie like it's too heavy. She says, "Okay," and then places it back on the table. I know it shouldn't hurt and I know I brought it on myself, but _God damn_. I'm getting mad again. _Mean. _I snatch my backpack and walk out of the restaurant.

"Where're you going?" Carol asks me.

"To read."

The truck isn't far away. I climb in and slump on the floor. I kick the wall, slap the wall, snap the door shut. Anger clenches my jaw and aches my gut. I grab _Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn_ my the pages and glare. I read. It takes a while for Tom to calm me down again, but finally, I feel relaxed and settled and it's okay okay okay that Shirewilt is a bust. We'll find somewhere else. Maybe I can even put my parents down.

There's a knock at the door. I know walkers don't knock so I watch quietly while someone opens the door. Carl pokes his head through. Without saying anything, he climbs inside. I open my arms and let him curl up against me, shoulders on my lap, head to my chest.

"Your ribs okay?" he asks up. "I'm not too heavy?"

I pull of his hat and sigh through his hair. "You're fine." His flannel is warm and soft in my hand, and the book is hard in my other_._

"You okay?" he asks after a moment. "Okay okay?"

I shrug. "Held my breath. I was dumb."

"Well, that's stupid," he mumbles.

"Yeah."

"That's not what I mean," Carl says. He sighs. "I kinda thought it was nice, seeing you get so excited about somethin' for once. It's been a while."

That hurting comes back. I think of Beth. I've never gotten my hopes up for something so much as I did to bring her home. I blink a few times. "I'm, uh... I'm gonna read for a while. That okay?"

"Okay."

* * *

**Carl's POV**

I listen to the trees whispering outside, Abraham and Rosita talking out front. Maggie is telling them about Shirewilt. Oliver turns the page.

I watch him read. He taps his tongue against his teeth. His eyelashes flutter while he follows the story across his page. They're so long, his eyelashes. Sometimes I wonder how they don't get tangled. He blinks. _Flutter. _In my head, sometimes I picture Oliver made of diamond. I'd draw that. Or I'd try to.

I'm caught staring. I'd startle, but I just keep looking.

"It's not bad," I blurt, "to get your hopes up for things. You've just gotta be prepared in case it doesn't work out." He runs his fingers through my fringe. My hair is so long he can cover my eyes with it. I push it back so I can see him. "You can hold your breath," I whisper. "You just can't hold your breath forever. You need it too much."

He kisses my forehead.

"Can you read to me?"

It's only when I ask that I realise I want it desperately. Oliver grins under-bittenly.

"I'm not sure you'll like it," Oliver says. "It's written kinda old fashioned."

"I've read some. Got about half way through."

Oliver looks like he only just remembers that. granted, he was in and out of consciousness throughout while I was reading it. I remember it like yesterday, when I'd brought him cereal and he ate it under the covers while I read at the edge of the bed. He asked if it was safe, to come out, and I said, "Probably not." I was so angry back then. I was as angry as he is now. Maybe that's how it works sometimes, when you care about someone. You have to swap personalities sometimes.

I point at the book.

"Read. Please?" I insist. "If I'm not caught up, I won't mind."

Oliver smiles and clears his throat. And then he reads to me.

"_Tom drew an hour-glass with a full moon and straw limbs to it and armed the spreading fingers with a portentous fan. The girl said:  
_'_It's ever so nice – I wish I could draw.'  
__'It's easy,' whispered Tom, 'I'll teach you.'  
__'Oh, will you? When?'  
__'At noon. Do you go home to dinner?'  
__'I'll stay if you will.'  
__'Good. What's your name?-"_

"'_Becky Thatcher. What's yours?'_" I say, remembering this part. I look up at him and grin. "'_Oh, I know,' Becky said. 'It's Thomas Sawyer_.'"

Oliver cracks up all over the place.

"Keep reading," I chuckle.

Oliver sighs and constraints. He's tapping on my flannel. I don't tell him. It's become apparent to me that it's kinder to leave him to it.

"'_That's the name they lick me by. I'm Tom when I'm good. Call me Tom, will you?'  
__'Yes.'  
__Now Tom began to scrawl something on the paper, hiding the words from the girl. But she was not backward this time. She begged to see. Tom said:  
__'Oh, it ain't anything.'  
__'Yes it is.'  
__'No it ain't. You don't wanna see.'  
__'Yes I do, indeed I do. Please let me?'  
__'You'll tell.'  
__'No I won't – deed and deed and double deed won't.'  
__'You won't tell anybody at all? Even, as long as you live?'  
__'No, I won't ever tell anybody. Now let me.'  
__'Oh, you don't want to see!'  
__'I WILL see.' And she put her small hand upon his and a little scuffle ensued. Tom pretended to resist in earnest but let his hand slip by degrees till these words were revealed:_"

And then I say, "'_I love you.'_"

The world slows down and Oliver and I are kissing. I hear the book hit the floor and then Oliver is sitting on my chest. "_'__Oh, you bad thing.',_" he says, reciting the next line in the book. I kiss him. And he kisses me back. He puts his hands around my chest and pulls gently, like carrying a new born baby or a glass vase full to the brim with water. I pull him closer. Kiss again. Roll us over. Tug. Kiss. Push. Shove. I get dizzy. I turn inside out.

Oliver laughs and pushes me up.

"What?" I ask.

"When, uh..." He laughs again. His knees are bent around my waist. "When Tom said _'That's the name they lick me by'_ I don't think he meant it like that."

That makes me laugh.

"I know, dork," I say, muffled, because I'm kissing him again, only not his lips anymore but his neck, understanding full well that back in Mark Twain's day 'licking' meant 'punishing' which is definitely _not_ what I'm doing to Oliver, given that as I do 'lick' him again, he shudders. I ask, "Should I stop?"

"No. No, man."

"Okay."

The truck door creaks open.

I've never startled so badly. Not when I was on that highway and I pulled the arsenal from that corpse. Not when Shane caught me talking to Randall. Not when that walker snuck up on me in the suburb. Or when I almost fell down the elevator shaft. Not even when Oliver had his seizure. But right now, if the walls of the truck weren't there, I'd leap across the parking lot. Oliver, too. But come apart awkwardly, gasping and swivelling around.

Tara. She yelps and slaps her hands over her mouth, then covers here eyes instead, baring her teeth. "Sorry! I'll... uh? Sorry!"

My cheeks burn. She drops her hands.

"I, uh, didn't mean to interrupt."

"Tara," Oliver is saying. He's covering his groin. "S-sorry. We..."

"I was just looking for your pun book," she says. Oliver grabs it from his backpack and hands it to her. He looks like he's in pain. I'd laugh. But I can't move. Tara thanks him, hesitates. . .

"Um, I've kinda been told not to leave you both alone for too long. I didn't, uh, think we'd need to be so... _thorough._"

"By who?!"

"Your dad, and Carol, and Michonne, and-"

"I get the picture," I grumble. It's pointless to try to convince her that what she thinks was about to happen wasn't. I'm not even sure I'd be telling the truth either. I don't say anything as I climb out of the truck. Oliver either. We walk with them back into McDonald's with Tara.

"Everything okay?" Carol asks.

"_Yep__,_" I lie, sitting down on top of a table across from her. I cross my legs and put my head in my hands. Oliver sits beside me on the stool, resting his chin on my kneecap.

"They're just looking out for us," he whispers. I shoot him a look.

"They on their way back now?" I ask Carol, changing the subject. Tara takes a seat. Judith's asleep in her cool box beside her. I don't fail to notice Tara exchange a look with Carol.

"Not yet," Carol tells me. Her eyebrows are up. I narrow my eyes at her. "They'll loot before coming back. We need more gas and food. Water."

"Don't worry," Maggie says.

I look into the fire. If we don't starve of dehydrate to death, and if the walkers don't get us, it'll be ammo we lose first. We'll use knives, machetes, whatever we can. Exposure can kill as easily as no water of food, too. Or we could just get sick, like before. A cold could kill someone now.

"_Carol?!"_

We startle. I suddenly want the talkie to run out of batteries. I suddenly want the whole world to run out of batteries.

"_CAROL!"_

"Yes. I'm here."

"_Carol, i__t's__ – __SHIT__! Get him over here!" _Dad's screaming through the walkie talkie, forgetting to take his finger off the button. I can hear Glenn and Michonne yelling in the background: _Open your eyes, __man__! _and: _Got it, got it, got it__!_ and my veins run dry. _"Stop the blood!"_ Dad barks. _"__Get a towel, there! Lift him over - __w__atch the walker__s on__-__"_

The line cuts off.

"What happened?" Oliver mutters. "What's going on?"

"Rick!" Carol asks. "Rick, are you there?"

"Everything okay?" Sasha asks. She's outside on watch, up on the roof. "Carol?!"

"I don't know, he's not answering m-"

"_Tyreese got bit!"_

It's like I haven't heard it. I don't even react. Nobody does for a second. Dad could've just told us shit is brown. But he says it again.

"_He's been bit."_

I think I've been punched across the face. There's a stagger on the roof and then Sasha crashes through the doors. Carol gives her the talkie. Sasha looks like her brain is moving faster than her body can catch up.

"My brother? Where is he? What's happening? Rick!"

I look at Oliver. He hasn't made a sound. He's just staring at Sasha, sitting on the stool in front of me. Dad can't explain a lot. Sasha is crying. She throws the talkie at the seat when the connection goes dead.

My eyes stay locked onto him, Oliver. He inhales, remembered he has lungs again. He looks at me. His eyes are so big and afraid, catching the sunset. They look like fire power.

Sasha rushes past into the bathroom. I can hear her crying. We're all silent. Maggie is holding her mouth. Tara is holding her hand. Oliver's drawn his knee up, hugging it to his chest. Carol is sitting behind him in another chair, both her hands on his shoulders. I can't tell if she's consoling him or using him to hold herself up. They're far away. Both of them.

"_Carol!"_ Dad snaps them back._ "We're at the car! We need to cauterise the arm and wrap it. Get Sasha and the boys AWAY! They don't need to see this!"_

Everyone's moving. Carol is rummaging in a supply bag.

"They must've chopped it."

"H-his arm? They can do that?" Oliver asks her. He looks ill. "Chop it?"

"Did it with my Dad," Maggie says.

"Oliver, I need you to go get the first-aid kit," Carol says. "Anything you can find!"

"Okay." He's already outside in the truck.

"Can I help?" Sasha offers. She's trembling.

"No," Carol answers. "When Oliver's back with the stuff, go with him and Carl next door. You don't need to see this."

Sasha grimaces. Carol is nodding, insisting.

"If they got him to the car they're trying to save him – they _can_ save him," she says. "Carl, Tara. Keep the fire going. Put the hares somewhere else for now. I'll go find something for the cauterization."

"What're you gonna use?" Rosita asks.

Carol swallows. "I don't know. A dish of some kind. Something flat and metal that we can heat up."

"There should be something in the scrap pile for the perimeter fence. I think I saw an iron in there – we put a towel around it, you could use it."

"That'll work."

They go to find it. I build the flames. When Carol comes back she puts the iron on the grill. Oliver comes back with everything he was asked to retrieve, plus some extras: gauze, towels, pain killers. His eyes are red and wet and panicked.

"Thank you," Carol pants. "Now, go wait in the gas station."

"What?" Oliver almost interrupts her. "No. I'm gonna help."

"Oliver."

"I can help you. You know I can."

She takes his hand and looks deep at his face. "Alright."

Usually, persuading Oliver to do something isn't difficult. He doesn't like to cause trouble or stress. Sometimes he'll even allow something that he isn't comfortable with to happen, but on the occasion that he is adamant about something, passionate, it's damn near impossible to deter him.

"But I'll need you for this," Carol tells him. "You aren't allowed to lose focus. Like before. Can you do that? When he gets here you need to be ready or Tyreese is gonna die."

Oliver nods, and nods, and nods, and nods. "I'm with you, always."

Something strolls past the window.

"Oh," Carol sighs. "Daryl." He enters the restaurant. "You're back."

"What's goin' on?" he asks. He looks pissed off. He pulls his crossbow off his shoulder and a collection of hares and squirrels roll over his other. "Why's no one on watch? Jus' had to take out a walker by the pump."

"Tyreese got bit."

"What?!"

"On his arm," Carol says.

"They helpin' him at Shirewilt?"

"No. It was a dead-end."

Daryl looks overwhelmed.

"I think Rick got Michonne to chop it," Carol says. "They're bringing him back – we're gonna cauterize the wound."

"How long ago?"

"We're not sure. They're on their way now."

He squeezes her shoulder and she hugs him. Then pulls herself together.

"Alright, we got everythin'?" he asks. He looks at Sasha, nods. She sniffs, nods back.

"Just need them to get back," Carol says.

The talkie crackles. We all look. We don't move.

"_Carol."_

She doesn't pick up. Dad's voice. He sounds so tired.

"_He's dead."_

Sasha collapses. She starts screaming. Maggie cries into Tara's chest. I look at Oliver. _Oliver. _He's sitting on the floor, his hands flat against the lino. He's not breathing. I pull him into my arms and hold him. When I try to say his name it comes out all warped and rough. he wraps his arms around me and then the sobs come. The sound is awful. He cries for so long. We all do. Cry and cry and cry.

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

"We look not at what can be seen, but we look at what cannot be seen."

I drop the dirt over his grave and hand the shovel to Glenn.

"For what can be seen, is temporary, but what cannot be seen is eternal. For we know that if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God. A house not made with hands. Eternal. In the Heavens."

Carl reaches for my sleeve and tugs me to stand beside him. I put my head on his shoulder. The tears won't stop. I don't think they ever will.

"In the Heavens."

* * *

**Notes**

RIP Tyreese

The truck scene was extracted from chapter six of Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain.

Thanks, **Rolo-chan **for the McDonald's inspiration! Definitely better than my lame field location before :D

As always,  
Happy reading (:


	3. Them, Part 1: Tired

**DarthGranola **Ah, yeah, I did.

**The Flash Fanatic **Yeah. I love Tyreese. He's kind of exactly like my dad. Temperament, appearance, moral beliefs and all. Thanks for the support x

**BloodGutsAndChocolatePudding **I still love typing that XD And, in my story, I think that, if Carl falls in love with someone then he loves them. Sexuality is so CONFUSING! But, I might go into it in the story, especially in Alexandria :)

**Guest **Community? What? I would love to! But I have NO idea how to make a community. XD I wanna read TFIOS Caliver, too! But, who on earth would write it?! Because I definitely can't write any more Caliver other than the main story and SOOP. That's enough for me, I have lifey things that I need to attend to. . . one day, at least. But I'll look into it, but yeah, if enough of you are interested, I'll see what I can do.

**ruby720 **Yeah, me neither! I've actually never read that book, yet, and I was like WTFF!? when I saw the lick thing, but then I was like, ah, got it. I actually like Enid. A lot of people seem to hate her. But I think she's pretty cool. Though, I think it'd be a little unrealistic if they had Carl and her get together really fast. But I think it's so interesting how he is dealing with her atm, he's so muddled, it's really funny XD Poor Carl. Good luck to him in sorting his hormones and brain out though.

**Rolo-chan **Thank you! x Yeah. There'll be drama. Just, not what you're expecting :)

**Boston's Fireflies **Thank you for checking this out, it seriously means the world to me. Yeah, they have a more extensive Pun Battle in a later chapter of the other original in Grady, and I gave credit to Last of Us because, duh, it's amazeballs. Lebra, too! So much! Maybe I'll make "Lebra" my outro instead of "Happy reading" Hmm. I dunno. Nah. I'll stick with what I have. Haahaha! Sex God Oliver De Luca X,D I think he'd scream if anyone ever called him that. And yes, reading your suffering might have made me slightly high on happy. x.O high face

* * *

**"**_**Clair de Lune" by Claude Debussy **_

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

My eyes narrow in concentration.

Haggardly determined.

That's me.

It's a case of staying calm, trying to use as little energy as possible, but staying alert, ready. The leaves are rustling. The breeze is soft and refreshing. It cools the sweat on my face, billows my fringe up against my beanie, and then the breeze is gone. The heat is blazing.

One minute passes.

Two?

I keep watch alone, using that haggard determination and listening to nothing while I sit up in the walnut tree. Carol identified it. The walnuts had fallen and rotted a long time ago.

Up here, though, I have an almost three-sixty view all the way around the farm. Mike's bracelet stings my wrist and my hand, too, hurts around my Glock. How I have sunburn on my palms, I don't know. But there's so much of it. My _sunburn_ has sunburn. My face. My collarbones. My neck. My shoulders. I'm peeling like a snake. I saw myself in a mirror a little while ago and had to rub my eyes. For a white boy, my skin's always been pretty brown, especially compared to Carl. But right now I am _brown_. Brown like _Nonno _and the photos of his parents before they moved from Sicily up to Assisi.

My clothes hang from me more and more each day. Too big now. Sometimes my stomach feels so empty that I can feel my stomach pulling all of me into me. Abraham mentioned once that when you go long enough without eating, your own body starts eating itself. I guess I knew this, but it still made me feel sick.

In a messed up way, it's comforting that I'm not the only one starving to death here.

Virginian countryside has always been my favourite view. There are endless pastures in front of me with a big expanse of forest to the left. There's a wooden hay barn and a long, gravely driveway to my right leading back to where we'd left Judith, Carl, Rosita and Eugene with the truck. Most of the others are currently searching through the farm house behind me, or they're around in the forest foraging.

Everything is quiet. I can hear Lizzie's watch ticking away in my front pocket.

_Tick.  
_Tock.  
_Tick.  
_Tock.  
_Tick.  
_Tock.

I push my hand down over it, and the quiet turns to _really really _quiet. Something catches my eye. I'd seen the rabbit hole before, not thinking much of it. But I see it this time.

Really see it.

A hare emerges from the small hole in the earth. I wouldn't see it if it weren't for the large, shiny, black eyes blinking against the sun. It's long ears twitch and it looks around. Doesn't see me. When it turns its back, I sit up straighter in the tree. The wind's in my face, masking my scent. I aim.

A door opens. It's Glenn. He whistles for me. Stops. The hare is staring at him. I think I can do this. I've done it before, with Carol. . . _and Mika and Tyreese. . ._

_Inhale.  
__**One second.  
**__Exhale.  
__**It only takes one second.  
**__Brace for the kick back._

Its back legs shift. It's going to run back into its hole. But. . .

_**CHOOK.**_

. . .It's too late.

Silent, it skids across the earth. Dead. Wet red spurts. I sigh, climb down, lug myself over the barb wire fence and retrieve my catch. It's skinny. It won't feed even a few of us. It was kinder to leave it.

My stomach squirms.

I pick it up by the back legs. It's all flaccid and rickety, still bleeding. I wait for it to drain enough, swinging it a little like I see Daryl do sometimes, then turn back towards the farm house. Glenn gives me a grateful nod, looking tired while he places his hand on my shoulder and leads me through the house.

* * *

It's the fourth day since Tyreese died.

Aside from travelling and not talking much and trying not to think about how tired we all feel but having nothing else _to_ think about, finding water is something else that's been desperate on our agenda.

Today, after all the searching, we come up dry. No water. One skinny hare that Rick's already told me will be for Carl, Judith and me.

"You need your strength the most."  
"Malnutrition can stunt kids your age."  
"We're adults, we don't need so much food anyway."  
"We're not as hungry as you."

Yes, yes. We get it. We do, okay? But we also know that it's not all the truth. We know that in the end, when it comes down to it, Carl, Judith and me are meant to be the last standing.

While Maggie and Daryl and Sasha are in the forest, the rest of us are sitting around the truck, waiting in the shade. The road is long and empty, trees either side so tall we can't see anything else. As beautiful as Virginian countryside can be, _this _side of it feels more like a cage. The new truck is white and big enough to carry us all at once. It's gotten us another thirty or so miles north, but it's running on fumes now.

I think it's day three since I last talked. Every time I try, I think my voice will break. Luckily though, talking isn't something we've been doing much lately anyway.

Carol is sitting behind me at the edge of the truck, combing my hair with her fingers. Combing my hair with her fingers is what Carol does when she isn't reading maps of shooting walkers.

A few minutes later Carl's head lifts up from his sister. We all look, too. It's the others, dawdling towards us. Shaking their heads.

"Shit."

I don't realise I'd said that until Rick gives me a look. He leaves the reprimand there though. The others take a while to get to us. They'd look like walkers if I didn't know any better. Rick tells us to get going, and we all file into the truck again.

* * *

For the majority of the journey I've had Judith on my lap. She won't stop staring at the hare. Its corps is strung up on the metal grid over the window by my head. I think she's hungry. That or she's waiting for it to twitch and coil its head around to stare back at her. It's unsettling her, I think. Her fingers wrap around my thumb tightly, squeezing every once in a while when I forget to keep stroking her hair.

Someone says we're somewhere a few miles out of Fredricksburg.

_About sixty miles away from D.C.  
__**Forty miles from home.**_

Without moving my head, I glance at Carl beside me. Without moving his head he looks at me, too, so for a moment we're just giving each other a weird tired side-eye. Discretely, I display four fingers against Judith's arm, answering his silent question. We'd started doing this once we got to seventy miles: casually putting up the appropriate number of fingers to tell him how far away we are.

He lets out a breath. It means: Do you want me to ask?

I look out the window. It means: No.

He lets it drop.

This is when the engine splutters. As the truck slows, we all go through the five stages of grief like a slide show. Disbelief: Glenn's saying, "No, no, no." Then anger: Noah curses. Then bargaining: Tara's looking at the ceiling and whispering, "Please, God, don't do this?" Then Depression: Sasha's eyes sink into her hands. And then, finally, acceptance.

And the truck drags to a stand-still.

"We're out," Abraham says. "Just like the other one."

"So we walk," Rick says. He steps out of the passenger seat and we all climb out, too. He takes Judith from me. I help the others grab a few belongings. My backpack is slung over my shoulders and the hare hangs up-side down in my hand from the string Daryl gave me.

My ribs are still aching. I get a head-rush. Carl braces me. I have to grab his cast-hand so i don't collapse. He's been using it a lot more lately, his right hand. He says it doesn't hurt. But it still makes a horrible crunchy noise when he tightens his fingers. Sometimes he'll grind it right my my face when I'm trying to sleep just to mess with me, not so much lately though. It's rolling into the fourth week since he fractured it and Carol says that if he goes more than three days without having trouble using it, she'll help him cut it off. This is the second day.

The road ahead looks daunting, to say the least. _Never ending_ might be another way to describe it, or, _as far as the eye can see_. Like a school corridor, only on either side instead of walls it's trees. _Tall _trees. And with the sun directly overhead, there is no escape from the blaze.

_Great, _I think as we get to walking. _More sunburn._

* * *

As far as the eye can see turns out to be a lot further. The more we walk, the more road we seem to come across. I think the devil is laying out the gravel and road as we go along. He doesn't want us to reach the end.

Abraham may have also told me that another thing about not eating for too long is that your mind starts to run away with itself.

We keep walking.

Carol is by my side, behind Rick, Judith and Daryl. Abraham is a little further ahead of them, and everyone else scattered behind some what in random formation. Daryl looks over his shoulder, double taking at something behind all of us. Rick checks behind him too. I don't turn around but I know it's walkers. They've been following us for hours.

"We're not at our strongest," Rick worries. He and Daryl turn forward again. He doesn't sound urgent, at least. "We'll get 'em when it's best. High ground, somethin' like that. They're not goin' anywhere."

_Neither are we._

There is a nudge at my sleeve. I look up from glaring at my shoes to Carol. She gives me a look. The look means: stop thinking like that. I look back to my feet, glaring a little less.

"It's been three weeks since leaving Atlanta," Rick goes on to Daryl. It's so quiet out here it's hard not to hear them. "I know you lost somethin' back there..."

Judith whines in her father's arms.

"She's hungry," Daryl avoids the topic.

"She's okay," Rick says. "She's gonna be okay."

"We needa find water... food."

"We'll hit some in the road," Rick reassures him. "It's gonna rain sooner or later."

"I'm gonna head out. See what I can find." Daryl breaks away from Rick and hands him his rifle.

"Hey, don't be too long," Rick tells him. Daryl nods.

"I'll go with you," Carol offers.

"I got it," Daryl declines.

Carol scoffs. "You gonna stop me?"

They go. I keep walking. I start coughing into my palm. My asthma hasn't been the best lately, what with the constant walking and the dust in the road. This is why I've been staying nearer the front. I fish into my pocket for my inhaler. When I spray, it's empty. I shake it and try again. Nothing.

"I've got a spare." Carl is coming up behind me from Maggie. He takes a new inhaler out of his pocket and holds it out. "Last one."

I brush it off.

"You sure?" he asks. My throat begs and I stare at it hungrily, but I nod and throw the dead inhaler into the trees. I'd had it only for a few weeks.

We keep walking. I shallow my breath so he can't hear me wheezing.

"Got rid of the music box," Carl tells me, throwing his thumb over his shoulder. "Gave it to Maggie. Figured she'd like it."

I wasn't sure why he'd picked it up earlier. It didn't even work. I figured it was because the box was the only thing left in the house that had a little colour on it. Carl's never told me this, but I know colour's important to him.

I make it a few more minutes before I'm wheezing so hard Carl forces me to take my medication. It's hard to recover when I can't sit down and rest. I figure if I take big breaths I might collect more, but doing that gives me more head-rushes so I have to stop.

"Hey," Carl whispers. He touches my arm. "Don't worry. We'll find something. Okay?"

I look away and tighten my grip around the string the hare is strung from.

"_Okay_?" he says again. I look at him. Colour's important to me, too. I don't know what I'd do if I couldn't see his eyes every day.

"Okay, man."

* * *

The sun moves from one side of the trees to the other, a thumbs distance away from descending under the treetops. It must be the after noon. When I check Lizzie's watch, I read three-thirty, and I frown.

I miss knowing what time it is.

We walk across a bridge. Under it is an old footpath. It reminds me of Lorton. Everything does in Virginia, sometimes. Rick had been looking around while we crossed. "Here," he says to us all. "We'll do the clean up here. The drop down there's steep enough for 'em not to be able to climb back up."

"We're gonna push 'em all over the edge?" Glenn asks.

"No," Rick says. "If we go over to the end, the banks're steep, we can wait on either side to push them down. Get in formation. Thin out their numbers and then pick off the rest."

"Alright." Glenn nods, exchanging glances with his wife and Abraham. "We'll help. Michonne, Sasha and Rosita, too. Rest of you guys should wait on the other end, step in if we need you to."

We nod, since the rest of us are either injured, a baby, emotionally incapable, or just plain emotionally _unstable_. Tara is most likely only coming with us to keep an eye on us. Just before everything starts, Carol emerges from the trees alone. She tells us that Daryl won't be long and we fill her in on what's about to happen.

We go to our posts.

It doesn't take too long for them to take out the small cluster of undead; pushing them down the bank and dodging their lunges. At one point, hairs raise when Sasha gets a little carried away, and I'm scared Carl will drop his sister when his father almost gets bitten, but he doesn't when Daryl returns at the perfect moment to help him. It's alright, and they come back over to greet us when it's over.

We all sit on the grass for a little while to rest. My legs still feel like they're walking, and my spine is tense even though I'm leaning against Carl. Too soon, we have to start moving again. No exchange of words, just a nod here and a pair of pursed lips there, and we are all on our feet and walking again.

* * *

"Dad, look."

I look up to what's gotten his attention: Three cars are parked in the distance across the road.

_**Whoever used them got out quick.  
**__There could be water. _

"I'm gonna head out into the woods," Daryl says. "Circle back."

"May I come with?" Carol asks.

"No," he says. "No, jus' me."

He veers off. Carol turns into a sinking boat while she watches him leave. The others start moving. I nudging her arm to coax her to come with.

We all search the cars. Thirst is something I can't explain without shrivelling up in the thought of it all, so when I search in the boot of one car and find nothing but a bottle of whisky, I grab it and unscrew the top.

"Oliver, you might wanna..."

I hear Abraham's voice and I nod, assuming he wants some, too. So I take the first small drink and pass it around. Except that doesn't happen. What really happens is that I take the first small drink and I splutter up a forest fire.

Abraham catches the bottle before I drop it. He's laughing, the wheezy kind, while he slips the whiskey into his supply bag. Disgusted, I wipe my mouth and groan. When he walks away, Rosita narrows her eyes after him, then looks at me. I'm still rubbing my tongue with my sleeve. She gives me an apologetic look.

I find Carl and Rick by another car. Carl hands Judith to me so he can search. Rick searches, too. They both find nothing. Daryl returns, too. Nothing.

"C'mon," Michonne says quietly.

* * *

We're sitting by a ditch near the cars. It's getting late, so I guess this is where we're going to sleep. I'm in between Carol and Michonne. Carl's across from us, his and Rick's back's pressed and Judith in his lap. Sasha and Noah are sitting furthest away.

We are so tired.

Thunder rumbles in the distance. I hear sloshing, too, closer. Abraham takes a large swig from the whisky.

"So all you found was booze?" Tara asks.

"Yeah," Rosita answers.

"It's not gonna help."

"He knows that."

"It's gonna make it worse."

"Yes it is."

"He's a grown man," Eugene murmurs. Abraham ignores them and takes another swig. Eugene keeps talking: "I truly do not know if things could get worse."

"It can," I tell him.

This is when a pack of dogs prowl out of the forest. My mind rushes for Carl and Judith. I'm not tired at all. I grab my knife. Everyone else, too. They're growling and staring and barking.

The largest of the four dogs, a black Doberman with pointed ears, steps towards Carl and Judith, and then. . .

**CHOOK.  
****CHOOK.  
****CHOOK.  
****CHOOK.**

Four silenced gunshots whisper through the evening and the pack of dogs hit the ground in unison. Someone curses. I sigh. Then, without a word, Rick stands up and collects a stick from behind me.

"Make a fire."

* * *

Dog tastes of beef and something else. It's juicer. Better than I thought. Also worse than I thought. I keep looking at the collars. _"Maxx."_ Judith won't eat the hare. She saw me skin and cook it over the fire. Didn't take her eyes off of me. But the moment I served it up for her she clamps her mouth and shakes her head. She eats the dog though. I give the hare to Gabriel.

Carl and I turn in early. We take Judith and lock all the doors and curl up in the back seats. If I bend my knees and put them over Carl's legs, we make a space for Judith to get sandwiched between our torsos.

A while passes, but I don't fall asleep. Whenever I feel myself dozing off, I inhale and play with Mika's bracelet and stare at the outline of Carl's hat on the edge of the seat behind him. I can hear the others outside talking quietly amongst themselves, and Judith as she purrs away against my chest, and her brother as he sleeps.

I almost fall asleep again and I jolt myself awake. I'm also scared I'll squash Judith, so I put her on my chest. And then I hear someone coming. It's Rick. I can hear him talking to someone. He opens up the door and takes Judith from me. I pretend to be asleep.

"You gonna take her into one of the other cars?" Daryl asks.

"Yeah. The other one's got a key, can put on the heating. I'll give her some more food if she'll take it. You can sleep in here with the boys. Fronts empty."

"Nah. I'll sleep outside."

Rick shuts the door quietly and they leave us. When I open my eyes again, Carl is awake. He must've woken when the door shut.

He looks sad.

"Nightmare?" I ask.

Carl shakes his head. "Jus' a dream. You?"

I shrug because I don't want to tell him I haven't slept yet. I've been tapping my fingers. Carl weaves his hand under them.

"Have you slept?"

I shrug again. Carl sighs.

"Can't or won't?" he asks.

"I know what'll happen if I do," I whisper.

Carl sighs again. "If you get nightmares, I'm here. Okay?"

I nod. He touches my cheek and brushes my hair back, then starts pulling my beanie. "No," I whisper softly. "No, keep it on."

He does, apologises too.

"It's just cold," I whisper. "That's all."

Carl smiles and kisses my forehead.

"I remember being on the road, on my own," I'm saying. "It was like this."

Carl frowns. I can see his dark eyebrows even in the night.

"I mean, it was so quiet, and, tiring. But it's also nothing like it was, too, because I'm not alone, you know?"

Sometimes I don't believe how alone I was. Sometimes I can't imagine ever being so alone. I remember it like it didn't happen to me, but someone else. I have to. There was nothing worse in the world. Being alone was like drowning, except I didn't know I was under the water.

Carl nods.

"What was your dream?" I ask him.

"My mom," Carl answers. "I was just talking with her. On the Farm. We were feeding baby chickens together, but they didn't have a mom, when I asked why, Mom said the mom might've been somewhere else. But, I told her that she'd probably been eaten. That everything's food for something else."

I watch him for a second.

"Did I ever tell you about the dog I found?" I ask.

"Don't think so."

"Well, there was a dog. Found her a few weeks before Michonne and Daryl found me," I tell. "She was some kind of mutt. Friendly, stayed with me for about a few days. It was nice. Had something other than myself to talk to, and helped me not feel so..."

"Alone."

I nod. "But, when I found some food. Turns out she was as hungry as I was. Attacked me."

"What happened?"

"What always happens," I say. "But, I didn't eat her. She wasn't food for something else, you know? That's not all we'll end up as." I'm trailing. "Sorry. I thought I was going somewhere with that... but... I guess I'm just talking crap, huh?"

Carl kisses me. I chuckle, kiss him back. Kiss and kiss and - and Carl stops. He sits up and peers out of the window, listening. . . I watch him, and then I reach out and touch his chest. I ask, "What is it?" and then Carl comes down and kisses me again. At first I just sigh. The thing is, I _really _like kissing him. I like kissing him like I like listening to music, like I like to watch him talk, like I like to watch him do other things. . . We haven't kissed in days. _Days._

He kisses my jaw,  
neck,  
chest,  
down  
down  
down. . .

"Come on, man," I complain. It's just that it's started like this before, but we always have to stop it; somebody coming to catch us or it's too dangerous or it's too easy for somebody to interrupt. Carl's fiddling with a button and struggling with his cast. I watch this happen. I frown. I can't slow my breathing or my heartbeat, so I say, "Carl," again, all fidgety and flustered. "I don't want us to have to stop."

Carl looks up at me. "Then don't."

I stutter. Carl grins. I turn into a human-swoon. Still, I glance at the window apprehensively.

"They won't wake up," Carl says.

My eyes are stuck on him. He comes up and kisses me. There could be a blizzard outside and I wouldn't know. _I'll just be quiet, _I think. _I can do that. I can totally totally do that._

I kiss him. Kissing with my jaw and lower lip. Carl likes that. And he _does. _He makes these little grunty noises and I have to cover his mouth. And then he's pushing me to sit up a little. He tries to get comfortable on the floor but there isn't enough room so he opts for kneeling across the seats instead. I keep laughing. I'm usually good at not laughing. It's my thing. But not with this stuff. I'm a mess. But I'm quiet, at least. And soon I stop finding things funny when Carl's unbuttoned my jeans and my fingers are tangled through his hair.

My head thumps the window. I shudder. I look up at the night sky and see the Milky Way swirling. The stars are dancing. The moon is bursting. Black holes are swallowing all life and death into nothing and - and: _Oh gosh, _I think, _ohh gosh..._

Carl looks up, asks me, "This okay?"

"Uh... yeah. Yeahgoodmanyou?"

I think he laughs. I think he says, "Shh."

"Yeah."

"Yeah..."

* * *

**Notes**

Happy reading :_)_


	4. Them, Part 2: Boys Like Me

**BloodGutsandCHocolatePudding** haha, yeah...

**DarthGranola **Thank you!

**Guest **( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

**Ruby720 **Yeah, it was a big blank space in the episode, so I wanted to show how they were "Holdin' tight," like Carol said. If she dies, I swear, I will riot.

* * *

**"In the Shallows" by Daughter**

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

_FROM A FRIEND_

They're just left along the road. We walked right to them. I thought I was hallucinating. Why would someone just leave bottled water in the middle of the road? There's fourteen of them. Four big bottles. Ten regular sized. Four's a good number. Ten, too. Fourteen. Fourteen. I glare at them. I'm not alone in being sceptical, however. Our weapons are drawn and we're looking around uneasily.

"Don't," Rick warns me when I reach down for a bottle. "Where's Daryl?" he asks.

"Went off to look for water," Abraham answers.

Not from him then, unless he's the Flash and Aquaman combined. On this thought, Daryl returns from the brush. Rick shows him the note. Daryl pulls off his crossbow. He looks pissed.

"What else're we gonna do?" Tara asks.

Others are talking but I'm not really listening. I'm staring at the sky, the gloomy clouds. It looks like it will rain. I can smell it in the air. I listen for thunder but hear nothing.

Eugene steps forward and grabs a bottle. The orange duffel bag jerks over his shoulder.

"Eugene!"

"What are you doing?"

"Call it insurance," he says. He's going to drink, too, but Abraham slaps the bottle away. Water goes flying. The road drinks it up thirstily. Abraham glares at him, then walks away without saying anything. Eugene wipes his chin.

"We can't," Rick growls.

I look at the water. Look and look and look, and then the water touches my wrist. I swear it. I lift my hand. _Drop._ It's like a kiss. Another. _Drop, drop. _The sky is kissing me. I look up. Another kiss, this time on my mouth. My tongue. Another and another. Kiss kiss kiss. I think of last night, Carl's kiss. His kiss and his kiss and his kiss. And then we're all standing in the middle of the pouring rain.

I look at Carl and the water is alive inside his hair, his skin. I touch his hand. He's already drenched. He's smiling. I get this feeling like Carl Grimes is the kind of boy who belongs to the rain.

I wonder if I do, too.

Tara lies down in the road. And Rosita.

"Everybody," Rick yells, "get the bags. Anything you can find. Come on!"

Thunder cracks the sky open. I'm cold. Judith starts crying. I pull off my flannel shirt and wrap it around her. Carl puts his hat on her head.

"She's never been out in rain before," I tell him.

Carl cuddles her close.

I get to helping everyone collect the rain. Judith is screaming. The thunder is getting worse. It's _alive. _Coming to get us.

No. Boys like me don't belong to the rain.

"Let's keep moving!" Rick orders.

"There's a barn!" Daryl shouts.

"Where?"

* * *

The barn is deep in the forest.

We're muddy and soaked and cold. Inside it's pretty tidy; big, with open stalls for livestock. There are books on the floor and crates. There's only one walker. Maggie takes it out.

By night-time, the storm is still going. It's windy and rattling. Judith is warm and dry now, as are the rest of us, mostly, bar a few pairs of damp socks. We drink and drink and drink, then collect more rain and keep drinking. I love rain. I guess I just don't like it when it's falling on me. I'm better around fire, I think. I have more experience with it. And I like looking at it, too. The flames and the smoke and the ash and the embers. It's hypnotising.

Yeah. Maybe I'm the kind of boy who belongs to the fire instead.

I'm curled up with Carl and Judith across from his father. Most of us are asleep. I should be, too, but I'm still afraid of my nightmares. Rick, Carol, Glenn, Daryl and Michonne are all sitting around the fire talking quietly. They're struggling to keep the flames going.

Carl fell asleep holding my hand.

"They're gonna be okay," Carol says. "They bounce back. More than any of us do."

I realise she's talking about me and Carl.

"I used to feel sorry for kids who have to grow up now. In this," Rick says. "But I think I got it wrong. Growin' up's gettin' used to the world." I think this is a very peculiar thing to say. "It's easier for them."

Thunder flashes across Carl's face. His freckles _splash._

"This isn't the world," Michonne says. "This isn't it."

"It might be," Glenn states. "It might."

"That's giving up."

"That's reality."

"Until we see otherwise," Rick says. "This is what we have to live with."

I feel the ground vibrate. The world goes white. Then orange. I blink.

Rick is right about what he said though. Growing up _is _getting used to the world. Carl and I are used to having to kill. We know things about hunger most grown men didn't know a few years ago. Carl knows things I don't, too, like what it's like to kill his mom. And I know things he doesn't, like how to be alone.

_Growing up is getting used to the world._

"When I was a kid," Rick says. "I asked my grandpa once if he ever killed any Germans in the war. He wouldn't answer. Said that was grown-up stuff, so... So I asked if the Germans ever tried to kill him. But he got real... _quiet. _

He said he was dead the minute he stepped into enemy territory. Every day he woke up, he told himself, _'Rest in peace, now get up and go to war.'. _And then after a few years of pretendin' he was dead... he made it out alive.

That's the trick of it I think. We do what we need to do, and _then,_ we get to live. But no matter what we find in D.C. I know, we'll be okay, because _this_ is how we _survive._"

Lightning.

Thunder.

"We tell ourselves that we are the walking dead."

I shut my eyes and focus on Carl's hand.

"We ain't them," Daryl says.

"We're not them," Rick allows. "Hey... We're not."

Daryl gets up. "We ain't them."

* * *

I don't remember falling asleep but when I wake up I think I'm in a new nightmare. Something is shaking my arm, yelling, "Oliver!" and I try to talk back only my voice is swallowed by a crash of thunder. The whole world shudders. I look at Carl's mouth, watch it speak.

"_The doors."_

I look. Everybody is pushing against it. The doors are caving in. We have to leave Judith on the ground. I'm on my feet, at the door, pushing and shoving against _them_.

The walking dead.

I don't remember a lot.

I don't think I'm inside my own body for a long time.

I just push. Have to push. _Push. _My face contorts. My feet slip against the mud. Splinters dig into my shoulders and hands and forehead. Walkers are growling and I am growling back. Wind whirs and screams and roars. Maybe none of us belong to anything. Not the rain or the fire or the wind or the earth. Not the stars or the flowers or the trees or the grass. Not even the storm. _Not even the walkers._ Maybe the world is just tired. Of _us_. Maybe the world is trying to take itself back again.

Maybe boys like me don't belong anywhere at all.

* * *

The next morning, I wake up feeling more tired than I've ever felt in my life. I can hear slicing, and snagging, ripping. My eyebrows knit together. It takes me a few minutes to open my eyes. Carl is awake, laid on his back beside me. He's trying to cut his cast off. The purple fabric is torn and fraying. Guess it's not really very purple anymore. More, _brown._ It looks pretty badass, really.

"Careful," I whisper.

He looks at me. "Oh, morni - _Ack!_"

My eyes widen.

He's cut his hand open.

"_Carl..._" I sit up and grab his hand. He hisses through his teeth. I watch a thin stream of blood trickle across his palm. It runs down his arm. Some gets on my hands. "Oh, Jesus."

"I'm fine."

"You're cut."

"I just really want it off."

"Carol said she'd help you."

It's not bleeding too bad. It's already starting to clot.

"How's your breathing?" he asks.

I shrug. "Is it ready to come off? Is there any pain? You know, apart from the damn cut you just did to yourself."

"Nope. None. Cut doesn't hurt much either."

"Good."

Carl smiles. I look at him. I love looking at his smile.

"Today's the third day," I say. "_Ugh,_ you're still bleeding, moron." I put his fingers to my nose and think. When I inhale, I gag. "Oh, _fuck._"

I push his hand away.

"It smells like something died in it."

"What do you expect?" Carl scoffs. "I haven't washed it in a month."

I gag again. Sometimes, when I gag, I can't stop.

"Man... That's disgusting."

I wake up Noah gagging, so I hold my mouth and bunch my shirt up around my nose. When I can stop, I decide I'm not doing anything again until his cast is off and his arm is clean.

"God, Carl," I whisper. "How did you even manage that?"

I get deja vu. Penelope said the same thing to me when I cut my own palm on Independence day two years ago.

Carl shrugs.

"Wait for a little while," he mumbles, "no one's awake yet."

"No, man." I stand up. "That's rancid. It might grow legs and run away with you."

"You jealous?"

"Definitely."

He sits up.

"_Rancid,_" Carl mocks._ "_Just because you're reading an old fashioned book doesn't mean you've gotta use weird words to prove your point."

"It absolutely does."

We walk over to an empty corner of the barn next to the feed room. I set up a few crates for him to sit on. Daryl is awake, sat against the barn wall opposite the front doors. I nod good morning to him and he nods back. He looks a little curious as to what we're doing.

"Should we wait for Carol?" Carl asks even though he gives me his hand. I kneel in front of him.

"I think I've got it. I mean, can't screw it up any more than you already have."

"Smug ass."

His hunting knife was Dan's. I don't know why I didn't notice this until now. I pick it up, frown, and press my mouth into a line to dull the imaginary sting in my lip. I slice away at the last parts of Carl's cast until I can peel it away from his skin. A groan of disgust leaves me. I throw the cast behind him by the wall, out of nose distance.

"_Oh..._" Carl covers his nose anyway. "Oh, jeez."

"Yeah," I grimace. "Look, no bruising or swelling. Let's wash it."

"With what?"

"Back in a sec."

Outside, I go to grab a rain bottle from where we'd left them against the wall. Except the bottles are gone. The sky is clear but everything is destroyed. Trees are fallen. Walkers are strung up in branches like Jesus on the cross.

I look out to it all and inhale. The world smells different after a storm. The world _is _different after a storm. The world is calm and quiet and fixing itself. I suddenly realise that I want to feel like the world right now, calm and quiet and fixing myself. I want to be that.

Yeah. Boys like me don't belong to the rain. Boys like me don't belong to the fire either. Boys like me are for _after _the storm is over, for when the rain and the fire and lightning have done their bit, and the world is coming back to life again.

"Oliver..."

My head snaps around to the barn doors. Daryl. He beckons me inside. I go.

"Ya'll right?"

"Yeah. I was just gonna get some water for Carl."

"He alright? Saw blood."

I nod.

"Some water inside." Daryl motions over by the feed room. "Wrap it up if he needs it. There's some stuff in the orange duffel."

The only thing we haven't been low on is medical supplies, since the hospital gave us enough.

"You got it?" Daryl adds.

"Yes, sir. Thanks. Lucky you guys brought it all in before the storm turned nuclear."

Daryl grunts. "Lucky nothin' landed on us."

We'd be dead. We'd be worse than dead. I look around. Sasha and Maggie are gone. I think Tyreese is, too, until I remember he died last week. "Where's..."

"They left a little while ago," Daryl tells me. "They're okay."

I get to tending to Carl's hand. He doesn't flinch or talk or distract me while I clean him and wrap his palm up. I leave the bandage loose, then let him take his hand back when I'm done. He doesn't take it back. He's staring, distracted and far away.

"Where've you gone, man?"

"Oh." He shakes his head. "Nowhere. Here. Right here."

"Cool."

He's doing that staring thing again.

"Something on my face?"

"No. You're fine. Really fine."

I grin and double-check I wrapped his palm well enough.

"It's nice, watching you work like this," he whispers. "It's like you're reading a book. The way you're so focussed. Squinting, your eyes. Pressing... uh, pressing your lips together, sometimes. Tapping your tongue on your teeth."

I look up at him and grin. "You know something, Carl?"

"What?"

"You make it really hard not to want to kiss you sometimes."

He looks like he will kiss me, only his eyes move behind me. Fast, he looks down at his hands. "_Heard you._"

He'd whispered it so quietly I'm not sure I hear him. Still, heat crawls up my neck. I look over my shoulder. Tara and Michonne. They don't even try to hide the smug off their faces. Carl lets out a nervous laugh. I turn to him and double forward with a groan into his chest. I whisper, "Only you're supposed to hear that stuff."

Carl laughs again. I can hear Tara snickering. I push myself up. Carl looks at his palm. "How did the line go from the book?"

"Huh?"

He thinks for a moment, then clears his throat, getting into character: "_Now, we'll start this band of robbers and call it Tom Sawyer's Gang. Everybody who wants to join has gotta take an oath, and write his name in blood._"

I laugh under my breath. "I'm not writing anything in blood, man."

"Me neither." He grins. "Felt kinda cool to say though."

"Guess I can't win at _Rock, Paper, Scissors_ anymore, huh?"

"Nope."

I pull a fake _damn _face.

"I can't believe you chose rock once."

"I _let_ you win," I lie.

Carl punches me in the shoulder with the bad hand. _Really _not so bad anymore, I guess.

"Thanks," he says.

It's a glance at my lips.

"You're welcome."

Then a glance at his.

And then. . .

"Hey."

We startle at Rick's voice.

"You two wanna make yourselves useful?"

_No, _I think. _I'd like to run away with your son, thank you. _Except I don't dare say that. I've ever heard Rick say something so passive aggressive. I nod and get up.

"Uh, yeah. What with?" I ask.

Rick looks around. "Could start boardin' up a few of the planks that fell apart last night. Get this place secure a little more."

"Yes, sir."

I catch Carl give his father a look. Rick gives him the same look. I ignore all the looking and quickly start on the plank repair. Only a small part of the barn was damaged. Three planks have snapped. I can fix that.

Carol is awake and giving me the same look Rick was giving Carl. I realise I give her the same look back. I even roll my eyes. I mean, it's not like Carl and I are exchanging saliva every three seconds. And it's not like we're fooling around every chance we get.

_**Yeah, but you are fooling around. Rick isn't stupid. Carol either. They're noticing.**_

Carl walks past me. We exchange a glance. I think it means: _They're on to us. _But it could also mean: _God damn I really miss kissing you._ I help him pry a plank away from the stall and he carries it to the wall we need to fix while I pry out another.

"What did Bob call it once?" Carl asks me as he comes back over to help.

"What?"

"When he and Sasha were playing that _Good Out of the Bad _game again, day we met Gabriel."

"I don't know. I wasn't listening."

I must sound irritated because Carl checks my face. Then he says, "Oh, I remember."

"What was it?" I ask.

"Sasha called it, _No privacy._"

"What did Bob call it?"

"_A captive audience._"

I frown. "I'm not sure I'm into it."

"Desperate enough, I'll be into anything."

"Shut up."

"I'll do it on a stage if I have to."

I shove him to get him to keep working. The barn doors open. I glance up over the stall. Maggie peers inside. She looks nervous. Sasha, too.

"Hey. Everyone?"

They step aside to let someone else in.

"This is Aaron."

I pull out my Glock before they guy even comes in. Daryl barges past to check outside, then comes back in and closes the doors. He pats the stranger down roughly. He jostles and grunts and laughs anxiously. He's tall, clean-shaven, groomed. His hair is mouse-brown and curly and his skin is clean and fair. He doesn't look very old but he doesn't look too young either. He wears a hooded coat, a button-down, and jeans. His boots are shiny, like they're new.

"We met him outside," Maggie says, "he's by himself. We took his weapons and we took his gear."

We wait and stare until Aaron realises it's his turn to speak.

"Hi."

* * *

**Notes**

Pretty soon I'm going away for two months. I don't really know how much time I will have to write but I have planned on getting the first 14 chapters out by the time I go :)

Don't forget to leave feedback, it helps out a bucket load

As always,  
Happy reading :_)_


	5. The Distance, Part 1: Petrichor

**DarthGranola** XD thank you, enjoy.

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

"Nice to meet you," Aaron says.

Carl takes Judith from his father. We stand behind a stall, watching Aaron carefully. He tries to step forward to shake Rick's hand. He stops when several guns aim at his face. Mine is among them.

"You said he had a weapon?" Rick says. Maggie hands a pistol to him. Rick nods to Aaron and stows the gun in the back of his jeans. "Somethin' you need?"

"He has a camp," Sasha says. "Near by. He wants us to _audition _for membership."

"I _wish_ there was another word," Aaron confesses. "Audition makes it sound like we're some kind of a dance troop. That's only on Friday nights."

Nobody laughs.

Aaron gets to the point: "And, uh, it's not a camp. It's a community. I-I think you _all _would make _valuable _additions. But, i-it's not my call. My job is to convince you all to follow me back home."

Rick isn't buying it.

"I know," Aaron says. "If I were you I wouldn't go either. Not until I knew exactly what I was getting in to. Sasha, could you hand Rick my pack?"

She does.

"Front pocket, there's an envelope..."

Rick finds it.

"There's no way I could convince you to come with me just by talking about our community. That's why I brought those." They're photos. "I apologise in advance for the picture quality. Uh, we just found an old camera store las-"

"Nobody gives a shit," Daryl says.

"You're, absolutely one-hundred percent right," Aaron apologises. He turns to Rick. "That's the first picture I wanted to show you." Rick's knelt down, pulling out the photographs. I'm at the wrong angle to see. "Because nothing about our community will matter unless you know you will be safe. If you join us, you will be."

It's a nice thought. Then again, lots of things are nice thoughts and will also never happen.

"Each panel in that wall is a fifteen-foot-high, twelve-foot-wide, slab of solid steel," he tells us, stuttering a little, "framed by cold-rolled steel beams, and square tubing. _Nothing. _Alive or dead, gets through that without our say-so. Like I said, security is, obviously, important. In fact, there's only one resource more critical to our community's survival. The people..."

Rick stands. He looks at Michonne. She looks back.

"Together we're strong," Aaron explains. "_You _can make us even stronger. The next picture, you'll see inside the gates. Our community was first construc-"

I'm watching Rick stroll up to him, maybe to question him, or maybe even to shake his hand and have this all be easy and go on our merry way with him. But that's not what happens.

_THWACK._

Aaron's jaw shudders against Rick's fist. I flinch. Aaron hits the floor hard and I stare for a second while the others search him. And then I relax, of all things. I don't know why. Carl, too, lets out a sharp sigh. He props Judith a little better on his hip and nods while I holster my gun.

"So we're clear," Michonne tells Rick, "that look wasn't a: _Let's-attack-that-man _look. It was an: _It-seems-like-he's-an-okay-guy-to-me _look."

"We've gotta secure him," Rick replies. He turns to Carl and I. "Dump his pack, let's see what this guy really is."

Carl grabs the pack and meets me at a small table.

"Rick..." Michonne warns.

"Everybody else," Rick says, "we need eyes in every direction. They're comin' for us. We might not know how or when, but they are. Anybody see anything?"

"Just a lot of places to hide," Glenn informs.

"Keep looking."

Carl and I pull out every object in Aaron's backpack. A roll of toilet paper. A jar honey. Another jar of -I smell it- apple sauce. Part of a gear. What looks like some kind of jewellery box. A glass candle holder. A small marble hippo. A map. And a flare gun.

Carl looks at its cartridge and frowns.

"What did you find?" Rick asks us. Carl gives him the flare gun.

"Never seen a gun like that before."

Rick nods to us, then goes over to Aaron. Maggie dabs a damp rag on his face. It's swelling. I nudge Carl's arm, whisper, "It's a flare gun," to him.

"What's a flare gun?"

I'm about to explain, but Aaron is waking up. He laughs. "That's a hell of a right cross there, Rick."

"Sit him up."

"I think it's better if he..."

"It's okay," Aaron assures Maggie, stretching his jaw.

"He's fine, sit him up," Rick insists. Michonne pulls him up and Aaron grunts.

"You're being cautious," Aaron says. "I completely understand that."

"_How many_ of your people are out there?"

Aaron is quiet.

"You have a flare gun," Rick says impatiently. "You have it to signal your people, how many of them are there?"

Aaron looks scared, like he regrets this. "Does it matter?"

"Yes. Yes it does."

"I mean, of course, it matters how many people are actually out there, but... does it matter how many people I tell you are out there? Because, I'm pretty sure that no matter what number I say... Eight?"

I tense up. I go to the window. Nothing. The world is still quiet and calm. Glenn and Daryl are pacing. Aaron is still making up numbers.

"Thirty-two? Four-hundred-and-forty-four? Zero. . . No matter what I say, you're not going to trust me."

"Well it's hard to trust anybody who smiles after gettin' punched in the face."

"How about a guy who leaves bottles of water for you in the road?"

_**Shit.  
**It was him?_

"How longa you people been followin' us?" Daryl growls at him.

"Long enough to see that you practically _ignore_ a pack of roamers on your travel," Aaron answers. He laughs nervously. "Long enough of see that, despite a lack of food and water, you never turned on each other. You're survivors. And, you're _people_. Like I said, and I _hope _you won't punch me for saying it again, that _is_ the most important resource in the _world_."

I feel muddled up and overwhelmed.

Rick steps forward. "How. Many. Others. Are out there?"

"One."

Rick shakes his head.

"Knew you wouldn't believe me," Aaron sighs. "If it's not words. If it's not pictures. W-what would it take to convince you that this is for real?"

No one answers.

No one _knows_.

"What if I drove you to the community?" Aaron offers. Maggie stands up. "All of you. We leave now, we'll get there by lunch."

"I'm not sure how the sixteen of us're gonna fit in your car you and your _one friend _drove down here in," Rick retorts.

"We drove separately," Aaron says. "If we found a group we wanted to bring them all home. Th-there's enough room for all of us."

"And you're parked just a couple miles away, right?" Carol asks.

"East on Ridge Road just after you hit route sixteen. W-we wanted to get them closer but, then the storm came, blocked the road, we couldn't clear it."

"You've really thought this through."

"_Rick,_" Aaron snaps. "If I wanted to ambush you, I'd do it here. You know, light the barn on fire while you slept. Pick you off as you ran out the only exit."

I shiver.

"You can trust me."

I look around nervously.

"I'll check out the cars," Michonne decides.

"There. Aren't. _Any cars_," Rick argues.

"There's only one way to find out."

"We don't_ need_ to find out."

"We do," Michonne says, stern. "You know what you know, and you're sure of it. But I'm not."

"Me neither," Maggie chimes.

Rick shakes his head. "Your way's dangerous. Mine isn't."

"Passing up some place where we can live?" Michonne asks. "Where Judith can live? That's pretty dangerous. We need to find out what this is. We can handle ourselves. So that's what we're gonna do."

"Then I will, too," Glenn says. "I'll go."

Finally, Rick nods. "Okay... Abraham?"

"Yeah. I'll walk with him."

"Rosita?"

"Okay."

"If there's trouble, you got enough fire power?"

"We got what we got," Glenn says.

Rick gives him Aaron's gun. "The walkies're out o' juice," he tells all of us. "If you're not back in sixty minutes, we'll come. Which might be just what they want."

Michonne nods and gets ready to leave.

"If we're all in here, we're a target," Rick tells us.

"We'll get the area covered," Daryl says.

"Alright. Groups of two. Find somewhere safe, within eye shot." He places his hand on Carl's shoulder, muttering, "Go with Gabriel," to him. Carl nods.

Glenn, Maggie, Abraham, Rosita and Michonne leave to find the cars.

Carol taps my forearm. "With me, Oliver." I nod and squeeze Carl quickly. He tells me, "Stay safe," and I say back, "You, too." And then he lets go and follows Gabriel outside.

* * *

Carol and I hide inside the long grass in the next lot over. Daryl takes a solitary hiding spot opposite us. Tara and Eugene are somewhere and Noah and Sasha are somewhere else. I saw Carl and Gabriel behind an overturned tree, but I can't see them from here.

The sun has risen into the morning. The sky was pink before, but now it's blue. I check Lizzie's watch. Thirty-five minutes to spare. I could hear Judith crying before, hungry. She'd stopped a while ago though. Rick probably found her something, some of the nuts we foraged or maybe even Aaron's apple sauce.

"I love the smell after the rain."

I look at Carol. "You do?"

She nods and chews her lips. I think for a second that she looks like Lizzie. "Grass and soil, flowers... All alive, like they're wakin' up. I love it."

I think of before, how I decided I belonged to the world after a storm. She loves it. _She loves me. _Except this thought makes me feel childish, so I shrug and say, "Petrichor. That's what it's called, the smell."

Carol looks at me in this way then, like she can see something in me that she doesn't tell me about. Whatever it is, it makes her smile. She asks, "Where'd you learn that?"

Again, I shrug. "Used to have a best friend who was kinda obsessed with words. Guess a lot of it stuck. Hey. Do you remember that day in story time, when Molly dropped the herbs and elderberries over the carpet?"

"Yeah, I do."

"And we all tried to clean it up, but Lizzie turned out to be allergic to the lavender."

"She had to use your inhaler."

We both crack up into silent laughter for a minute. Then we stop.

"You doing okay, sweetie?"

"I'm fine," I say. "Are you?"

"Gotta be."

We look out across the broken and mending forest and watch it slowly coming back to life again.

"Last night," Carol says to it, to me, "the others and I were talking about how this all is affecting you boys. Adapting. Adjusting to everything goin' on. Growing up in it."

"I heard," I admit. I squint and put my head back. When I look up, the tree branches look like the insides of my eyes when I shine a flash light into my face. "_'Growing up is getting used to the world.'_"

I look at her and she's smiling. "Knew you were awake. You were doin' that tapping thing again with your fingers."

I shrug wanly. Carol brushes my hair out of my eyes.

She calls me, "Sunshine."

She does that sometimes.

"Few weeks ago you said something to Rick," I remind her. "You said that it would be the easy part. Well, it wasn't. It really wasn't. But, maybe it could be now... Maybe this'll be the easy part."

She kisses my temple.

"Maybe, Oliver."

* * *

**Carl's POV**

Gabriel is nervous. He doesn't like being out in the open. He reminds me of this parrot we had in school. It was called Perry and its cage was always wide open, but it never left it. It could have. People left windows open and doors, but it stayed in its bars.

It never knew that it was free.

"I hope he's telling the truth."

"D'you think he is?" I ask.

Gabriel thinks about it.

"Yes," he says. "At least, I sincerely hope so. A wall like that sounds wonderful."

_A wall like that sounds like just another cage, _I think, and sigh. I sound like Oliver. But this, coming from a boy who actually lived in a prison for seven months, isn't giving much credit to how good walls really are.

I look at Oliver across from us. He can't see us from here. I saw him trying to spot us before.

Back in the prison Oliver used to tell me how the fences stressed him out, made him uncomfortable. I always liked them, or at least I learnt to quickly. I felt safe inside. Sure, I missed my gun, but I got used to not wanting to come out. Only then Oliver would talk to me about the forest and the sky and the stars, and at night we'd go and sit on the bridge between C and D block and look at them, the stars, and after a while I realised that it wasn't the fences making me feel safe anymore. It wasn't really my gun either. It was him. Oliver. I figured that if it was ever just me and him, outside the fences, we'd be safe anyway. I figured that I could come out, really come out, if he was just around.

The crazy part is that that's exactly what happened.

Gabriel sees me watching.

"I think you should know," he says, "I am concerned about you both."

I look at him.

"Will you continue the way you are?"

The way we are?

"In love?"

I don't know why I don't just say _boyfriends._ I've never said that I loved him to anyone before, except him. I blush. I've never even said out loud that he's my boyfriend, except to him when I asked.

Gabriel sighs. "You're children."

"I'm fifteen soon. Oliver is fifteen."

"_Children._"

_Fine, _I think, and frown. I say, "What, so that means we don't care about each other?"

Gabriel sighs. His eyebrows are still arched, like he feels sorry for me. "How do you expect to make a family when you are mature?"

He's never spoken to me about this before. I've never thought about this before. I'm fourteen. I clear my throat when I feel a catch in it, and I say, "We're still a family."

"No," he says, "you see? What makes a couple a family, is when a married man and woman bring a child into the world. Like your parents did. Like his, I presume."

"You should stop that," I say quietly, "presuming."

Gabriel sighs.

"You think we're bad..." I don't let it sound like another question. "Me and Oliver. For liking each other."

Gabriel tells me, "The Lord abhors all same sex relationships. The bible states that homosexual..._ thoughts_, and _relations,_ are a sin."

My cheeks flush. I feel it. Nobody's ever told me I'm wrong for the way I feel, except me. I don't know I'm asking until it's already coming out of my mouth. . .

"But what if you can't help it?"

Gabriel looks confused.

"Carl," he says. "Homosexuality. It's a choice."

It's not that I can't think of an argument. It's that there are so many. The arguments in my head are like a herd of walkers chasing a someone out of a field, getting trapped as they scramble through the gate. I'm speechless, stuttering over myself. I want desperately to be heard out. Understood. Accepted. I don't think anyone in the whole world will, for a second. It's horrible.

"It's not a choice," I say.

Gabriel watches me. He looks so disappointed. I wonder if anyone else sees us like this. I wonder if my dad did, at the start, or if he does now and just doesn't say so. My mind starts running away without me.

"It's not," I say again, to the ground. I'm angry. I'm upset. I'm scared I'll cry so I bite my tongue. "Oliver and I were friends, before. We didn't _choose,_ to... to fall in love. It jus' happened. It just made sense."

"Carl," Gabriel says. "I respect you. And I am your friend. And I understand that right now you might _feel..._ like you _need_ the comfort you both offer each other, to cope with everything happening. But it's corrupting you. Both of you. It's wrong. It's unnatural."

A sudden gust of wind blows through our hiding spot. My hat shakes on my head and I hold onto it. I look away, shudder. I feel sick. I want to punch him in the face. I want to shoot him in the mouth. But I just look at him and tell him why he's wrong about this. . .

"I can't _change_ the way I feel. I don't want to. I-I used to want to. I used to hate myself for it. But, it's _not_ wrong. I know that, now. And, you're not just my friend, Gabriel. You're family, too. _That's,_ how it works now. Because you're part of our group and you've _become_ a part of us. That's how it works."

Gabriel is silent.

"It's not like it used to be anymore," I say. "If it was, God wouldn't have let all of this happen."

"It was predicted tha-"

"God wouldn't have chosen to _let _you betray your congregation," I interrupt. Angry angry angry. Gabriel's expression drops suddenly. "You let them all die," I go on. "Women, children... whole _families... _You _chose _to let it happen. That _was _on you. But it's over now and you're part of our group and we accept you, even after what you did. _L__ike family_. Because _that's, _what family means now."

I'm not looking at him. My cheeks are wet, so I wipe them.

"Don't tell me I'm wrong for something I've _never_ been able to choose."

Another gust comes through. Gabriel sits down and puts his head in his hands. "I'm sorry..." he says. I don't know what he's sorry for, but I nod anyway.

We fall into quiet until an RV and an old-looking car drive up to the barn. They park outside and Glenn and Michonne step out, followed by the rest.

"Come on," I say, gritting my teeth.

We return to the barn with everyone and stand around the RV. While the others talk to Aaron and take a closer look in the vehicles, I grab Oliver's hand and pull him to walk around the side of the barn.

"What're you-"

With one push, Oliver is standing in front of me with his back pressed against the wall and my heartbeat in his palms. Trapped walkers growl around us and there's mud on our hands and shoes and knees. He's going to keep talking. But I stop him. I put my hand on the back of his neck and I kiss him.

"-hm!"

Oliver's hands come up to my jaw, both sides. He puts my face in his hands and pulls me closer. Kisses me harder. He knocks my hat off.

I'm on tip-toes. Kissing and kissing and kissing. We only pull away when we run out of air. His face is purple. Sometimes I think it's me, causing his asthma. I kissed the breath out of him. But I don't think he minds it. His pupils are blown. He's shaking. _I'm _shaking. Oliver touches my cheek.

"What was that for?"

I swallow, shaking my head. "I just, really needed that."

"Okay," he says. He presses our foreheads. "Any time you nee-"

Someone clears their throat.

Oliver and I pull away from each other.

"Carol." I grab my hat from the floor. "Oh. H-hey. We were just coming to help out with th-"

She pops her hip. I shut up.

"Boys," she says. "Come inside."

We both nod and follow her to the barn. Oliver tugs my sleeve when her back it turned. I avoid looking at him.

"You don't have to tell me what that was about," he whispers. "Just know that you can talk to me, if you want to."

I nod at the floor and pull him to come with me.

I don't believe what Gabriel said. But it still effected me. It still hurt. More than I want to admit. That was why I needed that kiss. To reinforce it. How right it feels to take Oliver's hand. How natural it is to kiss him. It's so easy to talk to him, and hold him, and love him. Because it is right. And it is natural. Oliver isn't corrupting me, and he isn't a coping mechanism. . .

He's my best friend.

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

Aaron's RV has a lot of water and food and supplies. We stand by a pile of it all on the table in the barn, like dragons keeping gold.

Aaron is tied up on the floor to a post.

"This..." Rick shows him a can of tomatoes. "This is ours now."

"There's more than enough," Aaron tells him.

"It's _ours_!" Rick growls. "Whether or not we go to your camp."

"What do you mean?" Carl interrupts him. "Why wouldn't we go?"

"If he were lying, or if he wanted to hurt us," Michonne answers. She looks at the rest of us. "But he isn't, and he doesn't. We need this. So we're going. All of us. Somebody say something if they feel differently."

"I don't know, man," Daryl says. He's sitting on the floor by Abraham. He looks at Rick. "This barn smells like horse shit."

"Yeah," Rick relents, "we're goin'." He turns to Aaron. "So where are we goin'? Where's your camp?"

"Every time I've done this," he explains, "_I've_ been behind the wheel. Driving recruits back. I-I believe you're good people. I-I'd bet my life on it, I'm just, not ready to bet my friend's life just yet."

Rick has already turned away to grab a map.

"You're not driving," Michonne tells Aaron. "So if you wanna get home, you'll have to tell us how."

* * *

Aaron wanted us to go north on route sixteen, but Rick decided to take the twenty-three north instead. Aaron told us it was a _bad_ idea, that he and his friend had already cleared sixteen and that it'd be faster. But we're taking twenty-three anyway.

We left at sundown.

Rick says that if we do it at night, it'll be more dangerous to get there but it'll be safter turning up to the gates in the dark than during the day. He says that if it isn't safe, we can get going before they know we're there. "_No-one_ is going to hurt you," Aaron kept telling him. "You're trying to protect your group, but you're putting them in danger." But even though he said this, he still wouldn't tell us the camp's coordinates.

It's gonna be a long night.

Rick's driving ahead in the car with Glenn, Michonne and Aaron. The RV, following them, is jolty and cramped. Abraham is driving. Rosita's in the passenger seat. Carol, Daryl, Gabriel, Noah and Sasha sit on the left side of the RV along the couch seats, and I sit on the other side with Carl, Tara, Maggie, Eugene and Judith, who is perched on my lap.

Carl's hat is in front of me on the table out of Judith's reach. I touch the dent in the brim and play with the golden dangles. I tap. Carl's shoulder brushes mine.

"What're you thinking?" he asks.

I shrug and say, "That, maybe this can be the easy part. Maybe, you know?"

Carol looks at me, then the road again, watching the headlights' glow.

"I'm not holding my breath," I whisper to him. "I'm not."

"I think I am," he whispers. I'm tapping again, so I stop and take his hand. He lays it flat, his hand, palm up, so I go ahead and use Carl's fingertips to keep tapping: _Thumb, pinky, ring, ring, middle, index, index. Thumb, pinky, ring, ring, middle, index, index. Thumb, pinky, ring, ring, middle, index, index. Thumb, pinky, ring, ring, middle, index, index._

I feel something wet on my wrist. Judith's asleep. Sasha laughs. I haven't heard Sasha laugh in a long time.

"I don't know what to do," I say to her, "she's drooling."

"Give her here," Sasha says. "I'll take her into the bedroom. Get some shut eye." Excluding my nightmares, Sasha is probably the person out of all of us who has had the least sleep lately.

I hand the baby over and Sasha carries her into the other room. The drool leaves a wet mark on my jeans when I wipe it off. I'm pretty tired too. I put my temple against the edge of Carl's hat on the table and tug at my beanie. My eyes are shut and I let the voices in the RV send me to sleep.

"What's gonna happen to Aaron's friend?"

"He said without a vehicle they'd be taking route sixteen back. Said there were a few cars that way."

"And Aaron was okay with that?"

"It's not exactly like we gave him much choice."

"We didn't see anyone when we took the cars. If we had we'da brought him back with us."

"OH,_ HELL NO_!"

It happens fast. My eyes open and the whole world stops, only I didn't get the memo, none of us did, so we all keep going anyway. Abraham hits the breaks at full force. We're all thrown from our seats. I get hit in the chest by someone's elbow, and my knee cap catches someone's arm. Someone grunts. Someone else yelps. Tires screech.

Growling.

Carl groans. When I can collect my brain again, I grip his arm to help him up. My ribs are throbbing. I think I hit the table as I fell.

"_Shit,_" I mutter, pushing myself off of Maggie. I help her up.

"What happened?!" Daryl barks, helping Noah and Tara.

"Is everyone okay!?" Abraham shouts at us.

"I-I think so," Tara grunts.

"Carol, you alright?" I ask her. She cups her collarbone. She broke it in that fall before Grady.

"Hit the couch," she says. I look at it, her collarbone, and push it gently.

"It's just a bruise," I reassure her. I help her onto the seat. More tires are screaming in front. I can't tell what I'm listening to until I see the car ahead driving through bodies. I only see taillights, and even then only snippets. Something is shuffling in the way.

"Is everyone okay?!" Abraham asks again.

Judith is crying.

I'm closer to the bedroom but Carl is still faster than me. We crash inside.

"Sasha!"

She's doubled over on the floor between the wall and the end of the bed, breathing heavy. Judith's scream are coming from under her. Sasha's head comes up to look at us, unravelling her arms to show Judith Grimes, unharmed and screaming. I almost collapse with relief. Carl grab his sister while I help Sasha to her feet, and we go out to the main RV area again.

"She okay?" someone asks.

"Yeah," Carl answers haggardly. "Yeah, she's okay."

"Sasha? Everybody else?"

We all groan or nod our confirmation.

"Do you see them?!" Rosita urges, staring out of the front window.

"They drove right through," Abraham growls. He's staring at the walkers. I'd figured there were only a few. But when I look again, I realise I'm very wrong. "SHIT!"

It's a whole herd.

* * *

**Notes**

Thanks for the support :D

As always,  
Happy reading :_)_


	6. The Distance, Part 2: That Way was Home

**DarthGranola **Thanks. Yeah, I liked how it turned out.

**Boston's Fireflies **You're super welcome. I'd just finished all of your stuff and was a little obsessed so I just sorta needed to express it haha And thank you, yeah, I try to make Oliver fit in as best I can. It can be difficult, but the handy thing with Oliver is that he doesn't really demand to be recognised, so having him more quiet and in the background, in terms of how the show is going, is turning out to be more realistic. Thank you :) And yeah, vacation :) getting there on my own! Urrg! I'm so scared! But super pumped.

**inazumahunter **Hello again! Yeah, thank you!I'm proud of the dude.

**poppop **This story loves you, too! And so does this writer! Thank you!

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

Abraham gets us out of there. There's a twist, a skid, and a jerk, and Carol yanks me short from cracking my skull on the table. The growls and shrieks itch, but they dull at least.

"There still in there!" Carl yells, bracing himself opposite me with Judith screaming in his arms. "We can't leave them!"

"No choice, kid!" Abraham argues.

"I can see the car lights!" Tara mutters.

"Do you see them?" someone asks.

She shakes her head. "No. No. Jus' lights. There's too many walkers."

Then there is a screaming baby on my lap. I close my arms around her and Carl rushes to the bedroom. I see him crouched across the bed, staring out the window. He yells, "I can't see them!"

He hits the wall.

"_Dammit__!_"

Again. _Again._

"Carl, stop!" I shout at him. "You're scaring her."

He turns to me. His eyes are wide and red, but he stops and steps off of the bed. He looks like he'll start crying while he sits down, but instead buries his mouth in his hands and stares at the floor. I sigh, hand Judith to Carol, then get up and join him in there. I scoot to sit hip-to-hip. Carl puts his head on my chest. Sitting like this, nobody can see us past the knee.

Judith is still crying.

I want to tell him it'll be okay, not to worry, that everything will work out. But I do what I do best and stay silent. I hold on around his head and. . . "Carl."

He looks at me.

I'm staring out the back window.

"Carl, look."

"Well _shit..._" Abraham sees it, too, in the mirror.

Something purple.

It shoots up into the night-sky and bursts into a thousand tiny sparks of colour. Light crackles and sprinkles down, scattering outward like panicked pixies, and then it's gone.

"The flare..." Carl whispers.

"Wasn't far away," Sasha mutters from the other room.

"We'll take another route. Rosita?" Abraham says. On cue, she scans through the road map. She looks up, anxious. Abe frowns at her. "What?"

"Route sixteen's the fastest way there."

"Alright." Abraham's face looks hard as stone. "Alright," he says again, more to himself. He takes a right turn. I can hear his gloves tighten around steering wheel. "We got this."

"Are you sure?" I ask that. I'm also stood up, in the door. Carl, too, beside me. Abraham doesn't answer. All I get is a glance through the mirror and a frowny nod. I nod back.

"Rick had the flare."

"Yeah so does Aaron's friend," Noah says over the engine and Judith's crying. "How do we know it's not them."

"We don't," Maggie says. I see Abraham grit his teeth in the mirror. His moustache bunches up.

"It could've been our though. It came from close by," Sasha says, "right?"

"Estimatin' from a rough judge of distance between where they stopped and where the flare was fired, to be there already, they'd have to've been goin' at at leas-"

"Eugene," Maggie tells him.

Abraham curses again and Judith lets out another scream.

"We're going," Carl says. His eyes are on the place the flare went up.

"Yeah," Daryl tells us. "We're goin'."

Carol coos to Judith. She's pretty shaken up. Judith can take the growling, the yelling, the hunger and the cold, but almost crashing. That's crossing a line. After a while Carol gives her to me and I clutch her to my chest and whisper, "Judy," into her hair. "Judy, Judy, Judy..." And it calms her down.

"If it's Aaron's friend, we'll handle it," Daryl is saying.

"And if it's more than just one?" someone asks. "What if there really are more than us?"

"We can handle it," Daryl says again.

Maggie's holding Sasha's hand.

"We don't have a choice," Carol tells us. "It's the closest thing to a land-mark we've got now."

Abraham curses again. Rosita's staring at him. He looks at her and calms down.

"We follow the flare," Rosita says. "We can handle ourselves."

* * *

There is only one sound that Carl won't ignore.

A cry for help.

This is how we meet Eric Raleigh.

He's who shot the flare. We find him trapped under a rusty tractor surrounded by a group of walkers. We take them, free him, and bring him into the building by the water tower. His ankle is broken. "A volley ball accident." Or at least that's what Maggie says. Eric grins at her. I think Eric is a grinner. He hasn't really stopped.

He's worried about Aaron though. _Really_ worried. Brothers? That's what I assume at first. They look sort of similar; brown hair and fair skin. Except Eric's face is longer and hair is blonde and straight and his eyes are hazel, not blue.

_Okay, fine, they don't look that much alike._

Eric says the word _our_ a lot. "_Our_ car." "_Our_ stuff." "_Our_ house." And then, at some point, it dawns on me that they're boyfriends.

The first thing I do is tell Carl: "Oh man, they're gay. Oh, man, they're totally _gay_. _Carl,_ can you _believe_ it?"

He says, "Shh!" even though I was whispering anyway. "I know, I know," he says. Except no, he doesn't, because he looks at Eric again. I grin at the back of his head. Quietly, Carl asks, "_Gay_ gay?"

I give him a weird look. He doesn't see it because he's still staring at Eric.

"How do you know?"

"I know."

Carl turns to me, sceptical.

"I can tell," I tell him, "like spider-sense_._"

Carl points directly at my nose and says, "You don't have that."

"Says who?"

"Says me. Says two and a half _months_ of me crushing on you and you being totally oblivious to it."

I shove his arm. "I wasn't oblivious."

"I had to kiss _you_, remember?"

"I kissed you first. Well, your... face."

"Forehead," Carl corrects me. "Forehead and cheek kisses don't count."

"I was warming you up."

"You were torturing me."

I grin madly.

Carl rolls his eyes.

I nudge his arm and whisper, "Was it really for the whole time?"

Carl tries to keep his face still but his grin cracks up across the whole room, except only I see it. In truth, he looks pretty anxious. I must too because he takes my hand. We haven't seen the others since the herd, but we heard gunfire a while ago. Lot's of it, and not too far away either.

I make a list in my head of all the things I'm certain of:

_1\. Judith is safe  
2\. Eric is a stranger  
__3\. Rick, Michonne, Glenn, and Aaron are missing  
__4\. This building is clear  
5\. I'm cold as fuck_

I huddle into him, Carl, and he wraps our blanket around us a little tighter. Eric smiles at us. I whisper, "Told you so," and Carl thumps my arm. We all can hear Daryl whistling outside the door. I once saw a movie where that happened, except it was aliens summoning back-up, not a Daryl calling for the others. For some reason though, I don't think that's far off the mark.

They'll come.

They will.

After a while I start falling asleep. I'm so tired that not even my nightmares are scary enough to keep me awake. Except they are, I guess. Because I'm not asleep yet.

Judith's laid across my stomach. She's wide awake. I'm not holding her properly, since there's a blanket under me, so if she fell she'd only have a six or seven inch distance to survive. She'd probably just climb back up.

Someone is playing with my hair. Probably Carl. Could be Carol - she wants to cut it for me. Maggie likes to play with it too sometimes, and Sasha did once, but she stopped when she realised. Not that I minded. Hell, it could be _Abraham_ and I wouldn't mind.

There's a wrap at the door.

I'm wide awake. I grab Judith and twist myself over and up onto my feet. It's totally quiet. Daryl isn't whistling anymore. Everybody except Eric is heading to the door and I follow, a little behind because of Judith. I don't go outside with her. I wait by the door, listening.

"Dad!"

"Judith okay? Oliver?"

Judith was trying to pick a pimple on my chin and I was trying to stretch out of her reach, but when she hears her father's voice, her head swings around and she stares at the door.

"Yeah. Yeah, we're fine," Carl's saying. I can hear his grin.

"Eric?" Aaron calls. "Eric?!"

"In here!"

"Eric!"

I flatten myself against the wall, a good thing too because Aaron would've crashed right into me and Judith. He's so flustered he doesn't even get a full apology out before he hurtles past to find him. Rick is short on his tail, except he stops when he sees his daughter.

"Judy," Rick sighs. He kisses her head, then puts his hand on the back of my neck and pulls me in for a hug. "Oliver, you okay?"

"Yessir. All good."

He nods, then heads into the warehouse. While Rick talks to Eric and Aaron, the rest of us collect in the store room. It's filled with building equipment. Michonne and Glenn tell us what happened, that Rick found a sound amplifying device in the car - Carl and I definitely don't glance at each other nervously and think about what happened in the back of that car a few nights ago, and we definitely don't think about how embarrassing it would be if anybody had had to have listened to any of it, no matter how quiet we were. Luckily we don't think about it for long. Michonne says, "Aaron and his friends've been listening to us. We think whoever was listening knew about our plan."

"Yeah, he did," Maggie says. "Eric already told us. But it's just him. It's only been him." Michonne nods.

"We saw the flare," Glenn says.

"Yeah, us too," Carol says. "Figured if it wasn't you then it'd be Aaron's friend."

"Excuse me."

Aaron walks into the store room.

"Excuse me, everyone," he says again. He looks so happy I think he might cry. "Thank you. You saved Eric. I owe you. All of you. And I will make sure that debt is paid in full, when we get to our community. . . When we get to Alexandria."

_It has a name..._

"Now," Aaron says, "I'm not sure about you, but, I'd rather not do anymore driving tonight. Maybe we can hit the road tomorrow morning?"

"That sounds fine." Rick emerges from the doorway, into the light. "But if we're stayin' here tonight, you're sleepin' over there."

The frown sticks to my expression before I give it permission. But even then I let it stay. I think, after everything, Aaron and Eric have earned our trust. I think of the Governor, and Joe and Dan, Gareth, and Dawn. Aaron and Eric don't fit.

"You really think we gotta do that?" Maggie asks.

"It's the safe play," Rick answers. "We don't know you."

"Look, the only way you're gonna stop me from being with him right now is by shooting me."

Rick doesn't deny it, but still, Aaron is going to step past him. Glenn stops him.

"Whoa," he reassures, then looks at Rick. "He told us where the camp is, and he really is only travailing with one other person."

Rick doesn't budge.

"They're both unarmed," Glenn whispers. "One o' them's got a broken ankle. I want us to be safe, too... I can't give up everything else. I know what I said, but, it _does_ matter."

It takes Rick a moment, but finally, he steps aside. "Alright."

* * *

**Carl's POV**

Sleep doesn't come after all. To Oliver, at least.

He's out for enough time it takes for me to start dreaming about the rain before I wake up to him shuddering behind my back. I turn over, whisper his name, pull his shoulder and then he is hugging me. He holds onto me for a few minutes until the night-terrors subside. And I hold him back. I hate it when this happens. It's like Oliver falls out of his own body - tumbles out of his own timeline.

"Hi," he says after a while.

"Hi."

Tara is sleeping beside us. Dad, across, with Judith. Everybody is asleep, except Sasha and Maggie, who are keeping watch. They're used to Oliver's nightmares, too, so they turn away and keep whispering among themselves. The lamp has gone out so the only thing we can see by is the moon outside coming in through one small window.

I pick up the corner of our blanket and hide us under it. I do this sometimes. We know it doesn't block out sound but it still makes Oliver feel better. He isn't going back to sleep. I can tell. Sometimes he can, but the look on his face says not this time. Not yet.

I whisper, "Spider-sense aside, I've never met a couple like them either."

Oliver is still breathing pretty fast.

"Like us," I add.

He swallows.

"Were they part of that group you told me about?" I ask curiously. "You know, the, uh, _AMC_ community?"

Oliver's got this thing where he'll press his lips together and arch his eyebrows when he's trying to decide whether to laugh at something or not. I can't see it but I know he's doing it right now. If he decides to laugh, like now, his shoulders start bobbing and his eyebrows arch up even more and his laughter bursts out of him like fireworks. Luckily though, he keeps them silent. I think of his eyebrows even though it's too dark to see them. I like watching them. I like how his eyebrows still do strange things to my stomach.

"What's so funny?" I ask.

"It's, _LGBT_," he whispers. "And it wasn't, like, a _place,_ where people lived. It was _called_ a community, but not like the one we're going to. People made campaigns and did peace protests, and... wore T-shirts, stuff like that."

_Weird,_ I think, grinning. I think of King County and growing up there and never once hearing about any of this. When I think of life back then, it feels more like a story I've read in a book. Guess that's how memories work.

"Guess it wasn't somethin' Mom and Dad ever thought to talk about with me," I say. It suddenly occurs to me that I've never thought about men marrying men, or women marrying women. Did that happen before?

I ask Oliver this and he says, "Some places."

"Some?"

"Well, before the turn there were some states where it was illegal."

"Illegal?" I think of what Gabriel said and I feel sick.

"But it was all bullshit law stuff. People could marry who they wanted, they just had to go places like Massachusetts to do it."

"Would they get into trouble when they went back home."

"I don't know," Oliver says. "Maybe they just didn't."

The quiet is uncomfortable and strange.

"My parents didn't either," he breaks it, "talk about that stuff, I mean. Not much. My aunt, on Dad's side. She lived across the country and we only met her a few times, but she had a girlfriend and a boyfriend at the same time. Or that's what Pat told me."

"Really?"

"Yeah, but Pat also said he once got high from smoking coffee." It was a joke, but I don't laugh. I'm nervous. Oliver touches my chest. "What's up?"

"Your parents," I begin, "what would they've done, or _thought, _if you, you know..."

"If I came out to them?"

I nod. He must hear it.

"Well, my dad would've been mad. Maybe..." Oliver sort of trails, then clears his throat. "Probably. I mean, one time these women were holding hands coming to pick up Donny Blaine at school. I was just a little kid at the time, so I didn't really think about it. They kissed and - and Dad was there, too. He was always away, so, I was just happy my dad was picking me up from school. But he just got into a fight with them. He complained to the school."

I don't like how relieved I am that he can't see my face.

"I don't know, pretty much whenever I thought about coming out, or, just talking to anyone about it, I thought about that, and I could never do it."

I inhale steeply.

"Um, my mom?" Oliver says then. "I think she'd have been a little surprised, at first. I don't know, maybe not. Sometimes she'd look at me, like, I don't know, like she was telling me to take my time or something. . . I don't know." He's saying that a lot. "I think she would have been okay with me. With _us. _I think she'd have really liked you."

I touch our foreheads for a second. "And... and Patrick?"

Again: "I don't know."

I bite my tongue.

"He asked me if I was gay once."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"What did you say?"

"I didn't. Not really. Just, sort of avoided the question." Oliver presses our foreheads again. "But, he didn't really seem to care. He was asking because he caught me looking at a billboard."

"What was on it?"

I almost _hear _Oliver's eyes roll. "Does it matter?"

"I don't know," I say, "does it?"

"No," he says. "It doesn't. None of it would've mattered."

"It wouldn't?"

"No. It wouldn't have mattered to him, I don't think."

This makes me feel better.

"So, are you?" I ask.

"Am I what?"

I hesitate.

"Gay?" Oliver guesses.

I nod.

He asks, "Are _you?_"

Oliver and I have never actually asked each other this. I think about it. . .

"I don't think so."

I think I can hear Oliver grinning, like he knew it. "Me neither," he whispers.

Deciding to leave that there, I move the subject: "So, how'd you know about all that stuff? About the _LGBT_ community."

"I guess, when I started thinking about... well, you know. Uh, I just, wanted – _needed,_ to know about that stuff, so I looked it up. Online mostly."

"Centrefolds not enough, huh?"

Oliver kicks me. "Not porn, dirt-brain. At least... _not always_." He whispers that so quietly I almost miss it. "It was more like, while I was still in the closet, I just liked to see what was out there, how other's felt about the way they were. I wanted to... not feel so... different... Not so _wrong_. Because I did. Hated myself. I thought my stems were broken."

That's a strange way to say it, I think. But I understand.

"But, then the Turn came along and I guess I just didn't care about it anymore," he explains. "I remember seeing pictures of this Pride parade on the internet. People were smiling and laughing, with rainbows painted on their faces, and colours, so many, hanging from flags and windows and on cars. So, _proud, _of who they were. It was awesome. I wanted to go. Just to be a part of it, you know?"

"Yeah."

We're both quiet for a while. I think he's fallen asleep.

"Carl, you still awake?"

I nod into his forehead.

"I don't wanna go home yet."

"Oliver..."

"No, no, no, listen. Yet. Just not yet. It's not the right time. Your dad's gotta see this place. He's gotta figure this out."

"You want to wait to go home?"

I hear his breath shake. I don't think I've ever called it that. _Home. _It's always _your home _or _Lorton._

"I don't mind," Oliver says. I'm not sure if he means it.

"But we will," I whisper. "We will, Oliver, right?"

"Yeah. Maybe when we're older. If this place is safe."

"One day," I say.

"Yeah," he whispers. "You and me. We'll go home and put my parents down."

"Looks like it's me holding my breath now, huh?"

We tangle our fingers in the dark. All twenty.

"One day."

"One day."

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

The next morning, we're driving the last stretch towards Alexandria. I'm in the RV again with everybody except Carl, Rick, Michonne and Judith, who are in the car behind us. I was going to go in with them, but Carol asked me to stick with her. When I said goodbye to Carl, Daryl walked around us and said, "Like a damn romance novel." We ignored him. We were only hugging, after all. Carol tols him to "Stop teasing our boys."

Rosita's in the passenger seat, and Abraham is taking the drive. I'm sitting beside Carol, who is sat behind the passenger seat on the couch. Our backs are to the window, except I'm leaning against her knee a little since her foot is up on the seat, bent at the knee. Carol is playing with my hair again. Tara, Eugene, Gabriel, Maggie and Glenn are all sitting opposite us along the couch or seats, and Noah, Eric and Aaron are in the bedroom. Eric's pretty drowsy, so he's sleeping in there while Aaron watches over him. Noah returns from talking with him and sits across me. He's rubbing his leg, like it's a dog, like: _It'll be okay soon, buddy. _I'd laugh, but I think this is the happiest I've ever seen him.

Oh boy. Tara and Eugene found the cards.

"Seven card stud. Aces, quadros, and two high jacks."

"So there's fourteen wild cards? A-are you serious?"

"Serious is two dollars."

Tara looks horrified.

I laugh and look out the window so she won't be too offended. Only I see something. A tree. A bookstore. Familiar. I sit up and turn my body to look. I see roads and houses and parks and corner stores. "Rosita... where are we?"

I know what she's going to say. I do. I just need to hear it.

"Uhh... oh, here, we're just coming through Lorton. Less than a half-hour from Alexandria."

I turn from the window and sit on my hands.

"Why?" Carol asks me.

I look at her, shrug.

"Oliver?" Tara, too.

I wince, shrug again, smile. "I, uh. I just, um, used to live here."

My gut clenches when they all look, too.

"Really?"  
"Where?"  
"Do you remember the street?"  
"That's crazy, you got all the way down to Georgia?"

There's a footpath, and then a memory. . .

"_Ollie," Penelope said, "the Shark Expedition'll have to be next weekend." _

_"They're minnow."_

_"_Sharks_."_

_"Whatever," I said, grabbing a bollard and jumping clean over it. "Leap frog!"_

_"Nice," she said, grabbing her dog's collar. "Come on, Bean."_

"Which way, Oliver?" someone asks.

I point. "That way. That way was home."

I look away. Tap. My chest hurts. Carol's watching me. I grit my teeth so she looks at the floor and asks it, "Are you okay?"

_No, _I think. _I want _to stop the RV. I want to sprint all the way home. I want to see my house, run inside, run run run into my parent's arms and tell them how much I miss them and how sorry I am. I want my brother. I want him to be alive. I want us to be a family again.

"Yeah," I say, "I'm fine."

She doesn't believe it but she doesn't say. She says, "Bet you never thought you'd come back, huh?

I look at her. I want to burst into tears.

"You boys travelled almost six states, thousand miles, only to come all the way back and find it in the next town over."

I just say, "Everything works out the way it's supposed to."

Carol takes my hand and squeezes it.

"Who were you with?" Tara asks me.

"My older brother."

"What was his name?" Rosita asks.

"Patrick," I answer her. "Patrizio Abel De Luca." Patrick hated his full name. Our parents had a compromise with names. Our parents had a compromise with everything; interfaith weddings, Mom keeping her surname instead of Dad's for moving to America to marry him. But anyway, with names, Mom chose my middle name and Pat's first name, and Dad chose my first name and Patrick's middle name.

"Patrick was a good kid," Daryl says.

I start laughing. I think, if Patrick was here to hear that, he would've fallen off his chair. I think Daryl might be smiling at me. But like usual, it's hard to be sure.

"He _was_ good," I mumble.

"Abraham, look."

Rosita tips her head. We all look. It's the Washington Monument. I grin at it. We can see a part of the whole city from up here. I think about Lincoln's Memorial on the other end of the monument, the long-since-dead president's larger than life statue still inside, sitting proudly and watching over us. Poor guy.

"How much longer we got?" Abraham asks.

"Looks like we're a little over half way there. Why?" she asks. Abraham looks down at the dashboard.

"We can make it," he says. "We can make it."

* * *

We don't make it.

The RV ran out of battery.

To avoid baking do death, most of the wait outside the vehicles. Tired and getting hungry but hopeful. Glenn says it won't take long while he and Abraham slave over the hood. Abraham kept making angry fire truck references, but Glenn seems to know what he's doing. Daryl is keeping watch on the RV roof, while Tara, Rosita and Sasha are behind it in the shade. Aaron and Eric are still inside. Carol, Noah, Eugene, Maggie and Gabriel all sit on the side of the road, and I'm sitting with Carl on the bonnet of the car, Judith in his arms and his father and Michonne by our side.

I give him a smile, and he smiles back, then squints and tells me, "I think we might've undershot earlier. _See you when we get there_ probably should've been: _See you when we _almost_ get there._"

Carl rolls his eyes. He's sweating. We haven't said so but the hood of this car is scalding our butts, a little.

"I saw the signs, before," he says.

"Yeah," I say. "Me, too."

"You okay?"

I shrug.

"One day," he says.

I reach out and take his hand, and the RV growls to life again.

We all cheer. I head back to the RV.

"You go on with them, sweetie," Carol tells me when she sees me glancing at Carl while he gets in the car. I smile at her. "Go on."

"See you when we get there, Carol."

_**Don't undershoot again.  
**__I'm not... I don't think._

"Comin' with us?" Rick asks me when I walk over.

"Yeah," I grin. "If that's okay."

"Hop in. Might stop him from complainin' so much."

I laugh and climb in next to Carl. He double takes. "Hey."

"Heard you missed me," I mock.

"_No,_" he lies. "It's just your turn to take Judy. I've had her all day." I laugh and take her. She thumbs at the stained bullet hole in my flannel shirt. Carl looks at it, takes my hand, and smiles. "You think this'll be the easy part?"

"Yeah, I do."

Michonne takes a seat in front and looks out to Rick. He walks away.

"Where's he going?" Carl asks.

"He said he needed a minute."

Carl doesn't say anything. Rick returns a few minutes later.

"Let's go."

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, we park up outside the gates.

Outside. Our side. Burnt houses and dead corpses are all we can see, but right here, at the end of the street, is a steel beam wall. It's tall and green and rusty. I swallow my dry throat and grip Carl's hand tightly. I look at Rick's hands around the wheel. He's trembling.

Then something changes.

I think of all the places I've ever stayed. All the noises I've ever heard. Even the ones I haven't. I like my silences, too. I know that. I'm used to the silence. I really really am. But I think there's one noise I like just as much. . .

Children.

Children laughing.

I stop breathing.

"Ready?" Michonne asks the driver. She puts a hand on his. He's just as stunned as the rest of us. He dips his head to collect his thoughts, then looks back at Carl and I.

"Yeah," he croaks. "Yeah."

We all climb out of the car. Rick brings Judith. We stand before the gates, a sheet covering the inner gate. The morning sun shines through and sparkles across our faces.

_We finally made it,_ I think. _Alexandria._

Aaron speaks to someone inside who he calls Nicholas, and then the gate is opening. Something strange and tickly whispers avross my neck and I look over my shoulder. She's hovering in the window. Inside of a burned down house. I see long brown hair and fair skin. Just for a split second. And then the figure is gone. Michonne walks past. I look again for the girl but I think I only imagined her.

"Hey."

I look at Carl, then back at the window.

"You alright?"

"Yeah," I tell him, shaking my head.

_Just in my head.  
__**Wouldn't be the first time.**_

Carl smiles. "We're both the strays this time, huh?"

With a shrug, I join him and everybody in walking towards the gates. Aaron helps Eric through. He hobbles out of sight. Something crashes against a trash can to our left and we all wheel around and aim our weapons at it.

A possum.

One bolt from Daryl's crossbow takes care of it. The gate stretches all the way open just as he grabs it. There's a guy. Nicholas. His face is an up-side down triangle and his hair is dark and curly. He grimaces at the dead possum hanging by its tail in Daryl's fist.

"Brought dinner," Daryl grumbles.

"It's okay," Aaron tells Nicholas. "C'mon in, guys."

We follow him into the community. The first gate slides closed behind us. It's barred so we can see our vehicles through. It's locked.

"Before we can take this any further," Nicholas tells us, "I need you all to turn over your weapons. To stay. You hand 'em over."

No one budges.

"We don't know if we wanna stay."

"It's fine, Nicholas."

"If we were gonna use 'em, we woulda started already."

"Lemme talk to Deanna first," Aaron says.

"Who's Deanna?" Abraham calls out.

"She knows _everything _you wanna know about this place," Aaron answers. "Rick. Why don't you start."

There's a growl outside.

"Sasha..." Rick says. Sasha takes care of it quickly, shooting through the gate just before the secondary shuts. Rick turns back to Aaron and Nicholas, propping Judith a little more securely to his hip. "It's a good thing we're here."

* * *

**Notes**

Hope you enjoyed!

As always,  
Happy reading :_)_


	7. Remember, Part 1: The Audition

**Rolo-chan **Yep, leaving for seven weeks, no time. And yes, Season 5 will be finished (bar maybe one or two chapters) by the time Season 6 airs. Expect fluff _very _soon. Oh, and ah, about that. I have a plan about all the living arrangements. And, aw, that's so lovely, yeah, it's true, Rick has sort of become Oliver's pa, and Carol's sort of become his ma, though, you'll see more about that soon, because it's a little touchy with her, especially after the girls

**DarthGranola **Haha, thank you, here it is, enjoy!

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

It's a suburb.

In short.

The steal-beam wall continues ahead on the left, and just ahead us on a grass verge behind some trees and bushes is a small lake. A footpath runs right around it into the community. There are grass verges and big, clean, colonial houses, with garages and flowers and porch swings or rocking chairs. There's a whole grass verge filled with big solar panels on the far right, and I can see a water tower in the distance. Across, next to the gate on the outside beside the fence, is a watch tower. I think someone's up there taking watch, but I'm not sure. When Rick sees me squinting he and Michonne look, too.

We're all lead past apartments. Brownstone, they're called. Aaron and Nicholas ask us to wait outside Deanna's home, on the back porch, while each of us go up and inside alone to have our audition.

Rick goes first. He's gone for around ten minutes, according to Lizzie's watch. When he returns he looks kind of shell shocked. Then Abraham goes in, followed by Rosita, then Tara, Michonne, then Daryl, Noah, Gabriel, Eugene, Sasha. . .

I gulp.

. . .and now it's my turn.

My stomach scrambles to my throat. It had been slowly crawling there for almost an hour while waiting, but just as Sasha walks down the steps, motioning me to go. . . it takes an awful lot of swallowing to stop myself from yacking right here across the patio. Even though I manage not to, I'm in no eagerness to do this.

Carl's shoulder touches mine but I ignore him. And then Carol's knuckle is pushing me forward, away from familiar faces to a house with one unfamiliar.

_**Oh, shit.  
**__I can't do this.  
__**Ohh, fuck.**_

"Oliver." Carol again.

"Come on, man." Carl, too.

_**Nope.  
Not doing it.  
Nope.**_

"Oliver, _go._"

This time, they'd said it in unison.

I'm shaking my head.

This time, two hands shove my shoulder-blades and I stagger forward. My left leg goes first, remembering the rest of my body right after. _Right, left, right, left, right._ The porch door is closed. I consider knocking. Nobody else did. I press my palm to the wood and push. Oh, pull, crap. I shut it behind me.

Inside, I am met with cool. This place has air conditioning? I shiver and open my mouth to say hello, but my voice dies in my throat. I step across the hallway in silence and remind my chest to keep hold of my heart. Just a few more minutes. My mouth is dry. My tongue is sandpaper. I remember to let go of my Glock when I step into the empty living room.

There is a couch in the middle of the room facing the window. Between them sits a brown armchair, and directly behind that, between the windows, is a full bookshelf against the walls. I'm assessing my environment, searching for any visible exit routes or threats. On either side of the bookshelf are windows decorated with white see-through curtains. Everywhere, other than me, is clean. Oh, bar the dirty hand-print on the frame of the window. Daryl probably, or Rick, or Abraham, given the size.

Out the window I see a thin peak of what looks like a church roof. Outside the walls, I think. I shiver again. After Gabriel's church, I think I'm okay with never seeing another one ever again.

There's a camera mounted on the table behind the couch, aimed at the armchair.

Something clinks.

I spin on the spot.

It's the dining room, separated from the living room by big pillars. Past the dining room is the kitchen. I head closer slowly. There's a rug in the dining room and a circular table for four - the fifth chair is in the corner or the room with a stack of books on and around it like a throne. In another corner is a small bookshelf, and on a table by the wall is a bunch of decorative plants (the kinds that look like feathers or cotton candy floss) and even more books are piled up around it. So many books. I'd be drooling if I weren't so terrified. On the walls are expensive-looking paintings. One wall is filled with what looks like a collection of shelf brackets. Weird, but cool. Kind of.

I go into the kitchen. Counters line one side of the room opposite me. There's an island with a sink and a big chandelier and a coffee maker and a cooker. Above it are wooden sculptures of faces who gaze down on the woman putting the kettle back on the stove.

I blink at her.

She's short. Shorter than me, at least. She looks old. Not _old _old. Just, kind of old. Her hair is auburn, greying, and shoulder length. She's wearing a light blue blouse and a blue watch on her wrist. She's faced away from me. That something clinks again.

My feet are rooted to the floorboards, like I'm a part of it, like I'm the root of a tree. _What do I do? What do I do? _I wait. That's what I do. I also don't talk. But that isn't new. I pull my beanie and thumb at Mika's bracelet on my wrist.

_Clink, clink, clink._

She turns around and drops a tea spoon into the sink.

"Oh."

I make her startle. She laughs after a second, like she's relieved. _Relived it's me?_

"Hello there," she smiles, walking around the island. "My apologies. I didn't hear you come in."

Her voice is confident, calm, mellowing. The kind of voice that sounds like it could tell a hundred stories, like some living audio-book. I purse my lips into what's supposed to be a smile. Doesn't work. I feel ill. Did I catch something after the storm?

"I'm making some coffee, would you like one?"

I shake my head no even though I'm thirsty. She goes and picks up her steaming cup with steady ageing hands, and then she's coming back to me, holding out her free hand. I flinch. I don't want her to hug me. Will she hug me? Oh. No. She wants to shake my hand. I miss my chance to. I'm not sure I want to shake her hand either. When was the last time I shook someone's hand anyway? I live in a world where on the day I first kissed my boyfriend, I also first murdered someone a few hours later. I live in a world where on the day someone tried to rape me, I also found my friends who I thought were dead. I live in a world where instead of shaking hands with strangers, we're too busy trying to kill them.

"Come," she says before the pause gets too long, gesturing her arm out into the living room. "Talk with me. Join your audition."

I hesitate. She leads the way, taking a seat on the big couch and drinking a sip of her coffee. She sets it down on the coffee table in front of her.

"I am Deanna Monroe."

I step around the couch.

"Please, take a seat."

My legs are rigid, but I do sit in the armchair opposite her. The seat rubs and my ears tickle. The coffee table in front of me, between us, is full with odd objects and artifacts – candles, a china bowl with some kind of white candy inside that kind of looks like tiny pillows, more books and magazines and papers with scribbles on them.

"Is it alright with you if we film this?" Deanna asks politely, waving a hand to the camera by her head. "Our talk?"

I shrug.

"Will you talk, to me?" she asks. It is only when Deanna looks away to roll up her sleeves that I manage to. . .

"Yes, ma'am."

"Ah," she gasps softly, "you do speak. Polite, too. How lovely."

I'm fidgeting and looking around. I sit forward, back... forward again. I can feel the empty space behind my chair like fire in a cold room. I look at it to check it's really empty.

"What's your name?"

My head snaps back around. I say, "Oliver."

"What a nice name."

I look at her eyes are they are glistening and blue. Not blue like Carl's. Blue like dark blue. Compacted blue. Like a Van Gough painting Carl once showed me. Deanna's face is like that. Like a Van Gough painting. Every wrinkle or line or blemish looks like it's supposed to be there, like it was all laid and crafted by a careful and devoted hand.

"Tell me. Oliver what?"

"De Luca," I answer.

"How old are you, Oliver De Luca?"

"Fifteen."

"Ah." She smiles again, the corners of her eyes wrinkling. "Travelling the fine line of childhood and adulthood. Both the best time of your life and the most terrible."

_I'm hormonal, I get it._

I'm not exactly sure if she's expecting me to say anything to that. I play it safe and keep my mouth shut. There's a yellow blanket rested over the back of the couch behind her. Lob sided. I want to go and pull it straight. I look away from it so that I don't think about it. I look at the door I came in from, at the staircase and the top of the landing through the banister. Is there anybody else here. Husband? Wife? Kids? Grand-kids?

"Tell me, Oliver," Deanna pulls my focus back. "How long have you been out there?"

"Month or so, guess."

She smiles encouragingly, waiting for me to continue.

"At the start, I stayed at home when my parents turned. Hid there with my brother."

"And how long was that for?"

"Five weeks. But, then we left."

"I'm sorry you lost your parents. It must have been hard to put them down." I must wince or something because she says, "Oh?"

"They're still there," I confess.

"Oh." Deanna squints. "I'm sorry to hear that."

I don't say anything.

I don't have anything to say.

Deanna sighs. She reaches forward and I flinch, only to realise she was only taking her drink. She stops, watches me, takes a drink, then puts the mug down again. "Are you afraid of me, Oliver?" she asks.

"No."

"But you're afraid?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Why?"

There is no slowing down. No relenting. Talking to Deanna is like standing in front of a tank. I would know.

"Have to be," I say. I'm trying to be a tank, too, but I'm more like a pushbike. "We all do."

"But you're not afraid of any of your group?" she asks curiously. "Rick, he's your leader. Have you ever been afraid of him?"

I shake my head without taking a second to think. Deanna smiles. Her eyes go deep. I'm not sure how else to describe it. It's like she's challenging me without intimidating me.

"I wouldn't blame you if you were," she says. "I mean, you're all rather frightening."

"No," I tell her truthfully. "We're family. And Rick? I... I have been afraid of him before, but I've never been afraid of him putting me or our group in danger. I trust him. He's like a father to me. Family. And you don't need to be afraid of family."

She smiles broadly, pressing her hands together and sitting forward. "Why have you been afraid of him?"

I pause, wondering maybe if I shouldn't have been so honest. "Well, um, like you said, we're all rather frightening."

Deanna smiles, but it's a smile that tells me that that wasn't what she meant.

"I have been. Before," I tell her. "I've seen, and _heard..._ the stuff he's had to do."

I think about that night in the Church – Gareth's mangled body, the look on Rick's face and the blood on his faux collar. "But he's protected us," I go on. "Everything he's done, it's been to keep us safe. Alive. Like I said, I trust him like family."

Deanna watches me. She takes a breath. "You said, before, you don't need to be afraid of family."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Then what do you need to be afraid of, Oliver?"

"The walkers," I reply, listing the obvious, "running out of water, food, supplies."

She keeps watching me, waiting.

I swallow. "You have to be afraid of losing the people you care about. You need to be afraid of..." My hands reach out, like I'm trying to grab onto the sentence. "Of other people. People who... who wanna hurt you."

This time, Deanna does hesitate. "And, have you been hurt by other people, Oliver?"

I don't say anything. I just nod. It's enough.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

Sorry. It's always baffled me how people are sorry for things they can't change. Maybe I'm too young to understand it. Maybe I just haven't been sorry enough about the right things. I shrug, not sure what else to do.

"And, have you hurt other people?"

I frown.

"Oliver?"

"I've killed people."

That's my answer, my tone simple and calmer than I suddenly feel. Inside, I'm heaving my words. I can feel them in my throat. Deanna doesn't say anything so I keep talking.

"I've never _hurt_ somebody."

"Isn't killing the same as hurting?"

I shake my head.

"And how's that?" she asks me curiously.

I glance at the camera and I wonder who will be watching.

"Oliver?"

My eyes snap back to her.

"How is killing different from hurting?" she asks.

"People... want... to hurt people. They _want_ to," I explain as best I can. "We have to kill people... We have to. But just sometimes."

_"I don't wanna hurt anyone." Mika said once. "I don't wanna be mean."  
__"You have to be sometimes." Lizzie answered her. "But jus' sometimes."_

"And you've had to kill people?"

I nod.

"How many people have you killed, Oliver?"

"Two." I tense my jaw. "That I know of. But I know I caused a lot more people to die."

"Why?"

It takes me a long time to answer, remembering the screaming at Terminus.

"They were going to kill my family, they were going to eat them."

"How did you all find each other?" she asks finally. "Did you all know each other before? Or did you come across each other along the way?"

"Didn't you ask the others?"

"I'm glad you asked that. Shows you're intelligent. Intuitive. Aren't missing anything. We need people like you, Oliver." I don't say anything, because she didn't answer my question. Deanna lets out a chuckle, relenting. "Yes. I did ask the others. But, I was hoping I could ask you, too."

I purse my lips.

"Is that alright with you?"

"Yes," I answer. "Um, no, I didn't know any of them before. It was just me and my brother for a long time. Almost a year. But I lost him in a store, we escaped, but, I didn't find him, not for a long time."

"For how long?"

"Five months."

"And you were by yourself? Out there?"

I nod, resisting the urge to look behind me again because I know that I didn't actually hear something there. It was just in my head.

"But you found him again?"

I nod, looking behind me in spite of myself.

"Then what?" Deanna asks.

"Michonne and Daryl found me first," I answer as I look back to her. Deanna smiles. "Took me back with them. To a safe place."

"I like Michonne," Deanna says. "Daryl? I like him too, but I'm still trying to get a grip on him." _Yeah, good luck with that. _"But I suppose you know that don't you?"

Again, silence is my answer, except I'm laughing.

"After they found you, then what?" Deanna asks, smiling and looking rather proud of herself. "Did you stay with them for a while? In this safe place?"

"Mhm." I nod. "It was a Prison."

Deanna nods. She knew this, I guess. She stays quiet, letting me finish.

"That's where I found my brother again, and met everyone else, apart from a few that we all met later on the road. But, I guess you already know that too, huh?"

"I like you," Deanna grins, pointing a finger at me. "I like you a lot. You really don't miss anything, do you?"

"I do, ma'am," I tell her. "I miss things. . . I miss a lot of things."

Deanna watches me, squinting and doing that mind reading thing again.

"Where did you live before, Oliver?"

"Here, actually."

"Oh?"

"Few miles south, in another town."

"Northern Virginia was evacuated," Deanna says. "Millions of people. For a long time there's hardly been anyone here, living or dead."

"I guess me and my brother were neither."

"What did you do before?"

"Huh?"

"You went to school, I presume?"

I nod.

"Did you have any part-time jobs?"

Shake.

"Did you have friends?"

I nod.

**_One friend. Your brother doesn't count to let there be a plural.  
_**_Drippy?_**_  
No, she was Penelope's little sister.  
_**_We were still friends though.  
_**_ You still don't get the plural._**

Ignoring myself, I watch as Deanna smiles warmly, no, approvingly. Deanna seems to have a lot of different smiles that mean a lot of different things.

"I was a Congress Person. In Ohio. Fifteenth District." I'm not exactly sure what that means, so I just nod, figuring she means something like politics or government or something similar. "Do you have questions?"

"This place..." I begin.

"It was supposed to be a planned community," Deanna fills me in, "with its own solar grid, cisterns, eco-based sewage filtration. Expensive." I consider asking how she found it, slowly building the courage to speak again. But she answers anyway: "My family and I were tryin'a get back to Ohio so that I could help my district manage the crisis, and, the army stopped us on a back road and directed us here instead. They were supposed to come after too... But they didn't... So, we used the supplies we had and made the best of it. We built the wall, then more people found us, gave us help. And we had our Community."

They've been behind these walls for the whole time, hidden, tucked away, safe and sound. Oblivious and spared from the danger. Vulnerable. They have no idea what it's like out there.

"How did your brother die, Oliver?"

"There was a sickness. Back at the..." I stop, frown. "I... I don't remember telling you that he died."

"Ah," Deanna grins knowingly. "Well, I'm willing to bet this house that the other boy out there is not your brother."

I stare at her, smile, no matter how much I try to keep my face and lips still.

"I'll take that as confirmation."

"Most people just assume," I mumble.

Deanna smirks proudly. "I am not most people, Oliver De Luca. I am exceptionally good at reading people. If I didn't win the election, I was gonna be a professional poker player."

I realise that I like Deanna, too.

"I'm not kidding," she insists.

O sit back, not so concerned about that empty space behind me anymore, just _aware_ of it.

"Do you want to be here?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Are you ready to be here?"

". . . Yes, ma'am."

"It's four-twenty-one PM," she says, like she's giving me a key to a city. The mausoleum of all hope, like Carl told me Dale once said. Not to remember time. But to be able to forget it, just for a moment, every now and then, so that I don't spend all of my breath trying to conquer it.

I reach into my pocket and pull out Lizzie's watch, twisting the dial to the correct time. It feels as good as pulling at my beanie, or tapping my fingers against a table top, or tidying up, or making the bed.

**_Let's just hope she doesn't ask anything about sanity. Not so sure how you'd get on in that audition._**

"Thank you for talking with me, Oliver. It was nice to meet you."

I like how she says that, like she means it. I shake her hand even though mine is filthy. She smiles Van Goughly.

"Welcome, to Alexandria Safe Zone."

* * *

**Notes**

I really do love Deanna's voice.

Tell me what you thought

As always,  
Happy reading :_)_


	8. Remember, Part 2: One New Fairy Tale

**DarthGranola **Thank you xx His character is so much fun to write, I love writing him inwardly panicking and over-analysing things, and with Alexandria, it's been so much fun to experiment with Oliver's character like this :)

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

Once everybody is finished with their audition (none of us can dance, but we all got in) we all gather in Deanna's back yard. A woman strolls into the yard with a shelved wheelie-bin. She smiles, a little nervous while she stops by the gate before us. Her skin is pale and her hair is black and straight and she is short with a round frame. She's wearing black pants and a clean floral-print blouse. Sat on her nose is a pair of black, narrow, rectangular glasses.

Her name is Olivia and she is here to take our guns.

When none of us reciprocate, Deanna (who has been grinning down upon us all like the speaker at an important event) steps down the porch staircase. Her smile, now, is confident and encouraging and sincere.

"Please, if you could hand them over," she asks. "We have a rule here that no guns are to be carried by civilians."

My first thought: _Well at least we get our knives. _And my second: _Is that what we are now? Civilians?_

Only a few of us hand them over. I am not among the few.

"They're still your guns," Deanna coaxes, meaning it. "You can check them out whenever you go beyond the wall. But inside here, we store them for safety."

The rest of us comply. Tyreese's Glock clings to me like a toddler and I have to pry it off. Lizzie's knife waves sentimentally from its sheath.

I look at Carol for her thoughts on all of this, and she's smiling. Really smiling. A little too broadly. I frown at her. Thing is, as well as the out of character grin, Carol is making quite a scene. She's having trouble getting her rifle over her head, completely blundering. She manages to drop it onto the bin shelf, apologising again and again with submissive smiles and silly hand gestures.

_Who are you? _I'm thinking. _And what have you done with Carol Peletier?_

"Should'a brought another bin," Olivia says.

Now I'm frowning and wondering if maybe Carol has been drugged or something because she's giggling like a child. Olivia leaves us all and heads across the street, towards what I assume is the armoury. Someone said the armoury and the pantry are in the same house, which is where Olivia lives (she's in charge of all that). Carol is looking at me and she is not smiling or giggling and she is very much Carol Peletier who doesn't blunder or drop guns again. She gives me a very serious look, and then gives Rick the same look.

And then I understand.

She's playing possum.

* * *

Two houses next door to each other have been given to share between the sixteen of us. Rick and Carl got first privilege to see inside the first house, which it at the end of one of the cul-de-sac streets. The second house is right next door. The rest of us are having our first real meal for weeks.

Apple and butternut squash soup.

It

was

made

on

a

stove.

I'm fairly sure I look like a rabid animal while I eat, but I do my best to behave as well-mannered as I can, sat on the grass outside of Deanna's house with the others. But at least I don't get food around my mouth unlike Daryl. I'm not sure he even cares. Finally, Rick and Carl come back. Carl asks, "Where'd you get that?" and points at my bowl, which I finish quickly for fear he might take it from me, which he looks completely offended by. I grin, point to the sealed bowl behind me (which I had gotten for him), and he grabs it and stuffs his face.

* * *

The first house is huge.

Three stories (though the third is the attic, by the looks) and grey panel walls. Outside there are lanterns and a barbeque and some chairs and a rocking chair. The windows have shutters and both the front door and the double side-doors are pastel yellow. Inside, everywhere is already furnished. There are cushions and matching lamps and coffee tables and curtains. Rugs. On the centre coffee table is a sculpture of an octopus, and on another coffee table by the other couch are two sculptures of squid. Weird but cool. More things like that, like the silver beetle paper weights and the hourglasses that spin and the Ferris wheel on the wall that doesn't spin (I know because I tried). There's a big TV and a chest that I don't know what's inside of and a big cabinet with cool things like little plants and a brass globe and more paperweights (these ones are in the shape of atoms, I think). The dining room tables and chairs match and the table even has pads to protect the floor. There's a framed American Morse Code board on the wall and the kitchen has an island, and there are two sinks. What's more?

The

taps

_work_.

! _!_ **_!_**

_Thisissocoolthisissocoolthisisso**fucking**cool!_

Judith is unaware of her father's intentions while she watches him fill up the island sink with warm soapy water, and then, as he lowers her in, at first she looks horrified but then she looks like she might've never felt happier. Now that I think about it, it's probably the first bath Judith has ever had. Much better than rain in her opinion. She cries when Rick lifts her out.

Carl has first dibs on the shower (he was far more excited than he let on) and comes out around half an hour later; pale and flustered and so clean and flawless that when I run into him on the landing I _have _to steal a kiss right then and there. His giggle tastes like peppermint. I may or may not decide in that moment to steal quite a few more kisses from him, and then he's pulling me back into the bathroom and we're making out inside, staggering over sinks and towels until we hear people coming up the staircase and I shove him out of the room. He's laughing while I shut the door, and when his father asks, "What's up?" Carl strolls away and says, "Nothing."

He's lying.

I'm up.

Up up up like a skyscraper.

"Jesus," I say, glad for the door between an audience and the house under my feet. I brush my teeth first (four times) and it gives me life (I don't think I have any enamel left!) and then I kick off all my clothes. The bathroom is mostly white, clean everywhere, and all steamed up from Carl's use of it. There is a stack of towels on the corner on the window ledge. Or there were before I'd knocked them off a second ago by make-out-accident. I take one and put the rest back, set my towel over the rack, then step into the shower, unsure how to use it. While I decipher buttons at view, I run my hand over my stomach and a layer of grime and sweat (that feels more like glue) rubs off. I laugh at it, rub my fingers together, then switch on a faucet at random, leaving a dirty smear.

The water is cold.

So cold.

(Thanks, Grimes)

The next dial scalds me and I scream and stagger and slip onto my bear ass, laughing hysterically while I clamber up and rush put it at the right temperature, gasping and dodging and sobbing all at the same time. Is it possible to go mad by water?

Doesn't matter.

Don't care.

I am washing.

Soaping, shampooing, conditioning, even that weird blue stuff I found in a cupboard that leaves glitter dust in my hair, like I'm Cinderella at this shower is my Godmother transforming me for the ball. I scrub as much as I can out. I scrub everywhere, actually. Absolutely everywhere. My sunburn stings and I can feel every cut and scratch and bruise. I watch in awe as dirt drains away from me like some old horror movie (in black and white it would totally look like blood). Only I stop thinking about blood. I don't need to right now. I'm watching the mud leave, as if everything that we've all been through is leaving with it. . .

And.

It.

Is.

Enough.

It's time to get out but I'm still up up up with the strength of steel and the hormones of a stallion, so, very quickly, shower-jerks become my new favourite solitary pass-time in the universe.

* * *

I hadn't anticipated how much I could have physically changed since the last time I got a look at my reflection. But I don't think I would have recognised myself hadn't it been for my eyes. Eyes never change. Not once your whole life. Even my under-bite looks different. Broader? Maybe. Still hate it either way.

Last time I saw my reflection was at the suburb house. I was pretty much entirely bruises and cuts and swollen blisters, which are all healed and scarred now. Scars are like permanent reminders of loss and trauma, I think. Sometimes I forget about them, sometimes I'll go a few days without even thinking about any of it, but permanent reminders have their name for a reason, because it all floods back again. That's just how permanent reminders work – subtly, covertly, gruesomely. The scars on my temple and lip and stomach and chest look pretty gnarly, I think, just so long as I don't think much about how I got them. If I had to pick a favourite scar it's the bullet hole in my chest, just under my collarbone, definitely, but I think that's only because Carl likes it. The one on my stomach, too. He told me he remembered how I got that one; when I fell down in the courtyard and landed weird on rubble, and he shot the walkers before they got to me his dad. Sometimes, if we won't get caught, Carl will put his hand under my shirt and touch them, press and play with the bumps and lumps, and I'll shiver all over and kiss his face off.

Still, how on earth could I have grown so much?

Maybe it's my hair, so long now that it hangs over my eyebrows and ears and neck, only just shorter than Carl's. Or maybe it's because of the budding (but really really not worthy of any real note) facial hair sprouting over my upper lip and chin and side burns. Or maybe I've just had a growth spurt. I have shoulders now. Not scrawny anymore like back at the prison, but actual _shoulder_ shoulders, and _muscles_! Kind of.

Carol notices too.

"Look at you," she tells me. The toilet is flushing behind me —I didn't actually use it I just wanted to see if it worked. I smile goofily, and then she pokes my chest. "I didn't know you were buff."

_Buff? Really, Carol...?_

I laugh at her, getting bashful while I hide behind the dirty clothes I'm carrying under my arm. She's about to go in after me, but Rick slips into the bathroom, a smirk on his bearded face for the shortest moment before he shuts the door behind him. Carol glares, then slowly turns to me. I grin at her expense.

"Where's Judy?"

Carol motions in the room she'd just come from, and then I'm shuffling inside. Judith is unconscious on the middle of the bed. Aaron said he's going to find a cot before bedtime. A neatly folded set of clothes are just beside her, for me, I realise when I see the clean beanie hat on top. Grinning, I quietly and quickly dress myself: A long sleeve white shirt, a red, plaid, flannel shirt, and a pair of dark-blue denim jeans. The beanie has a dark red rim, a grey middle, and an orange top. If I lay it out like a flat bowl it kind of looks like a messed up Captain America shield.

**_If it had blue instead of orange, and a star. You, really, really need to get your hands on a new comic. You're having withdrawal symptoms._**

Once I'm fully dressed, I fit my holster around my waist. It feels too light with only Lizzie's small blade inside. I hesitate to part from my original beanie. Sentimentality more than anything, but then I press it to my nose to smell. . .

"_Ogh_!"

Every item of my original clothing goes into the wash pile almost immediately, once I remove Lizzie's watch from my jeans pocket and re-home it in my new clean pair of jeans instead. It's almost six o'clock in the afternoon.

I can hear Carol moving around outside near the bathroom.

"Rick," she says, knocking on a door. He must still be showering. I lie down beside Judith on the bed, melting into the mattress and comforter, and then I'm losing all sense of body because I'm just a very very tired boy-thought of comfort and _Jesus Christ, am I lying on a freaking cloud?_ "Rick?"

I hear the shower switch off, and then rushing; wet slippy footsteps. He hurries to the door. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. We're fine. We're bringing the supplies in. Your stuffs in the orange duffel, right?"

"Yeah, hold on, I'll come help."

"No, you stay. Finish your shower. Settle. We'll be fine."

There is a pause. In it, I forget I exist.

"Carl and Oliver don't leave the wall," Rick says.

"Promise. Taking Judith, too."

Another pause. Rick doesn't like this, but at the same time he knows he can trust her.

"Alright. If you're not back in too long, I'll come lookin'."

Carol sighs. . .

"Okay."

He must nod, and then he whispers something I don't hear, and then, quietly, the bathroom door shuts and Carol is knocking on my door.

Judith, who's been awake for a few moments, is now fiddling with my bracelet. As well as that, to force myself to remember my own existence, I had rolled off the bed like a dying sloth and moved to kneel beside her; the top of her head pressed to my nose and her fingers tangled into Mika's bracelet. So now, bent at a very embarrassing angle over the bed with that funny baby-smell of hers in my nostrils, I rush to sit properly on the floor just as Carol comes in.

We don't speak.

We don't really need to.

Judith pulls at my beanie when I pick her up, frowning at it because she was sure there was never a big red rim there before. Carol coos to her, and when she lifts her head she looks directly at me and I look directly at her, and for the first time since arriving, we think together like we have the same brain. . .

_Love you, _I think to her.

_You, too, _she thinks back.

* * *

Down in the kitchen Tara tells me, "Dude," and I tell her, "Thanks," and then Glenn tells me, "Thought you were wrestling a bear up there." And I can feel myself blushing. Out on the porch, Carl glances at me from his seat on the rocking chair and takes in my metamorphosis just as much as I do his. . .

His hair is still damp, and his hands and face and neck are all clean and sparkling and it makes my brain spin. Tangled up in stem. He says, "Nice hat," and I say . . . nothing, because I'm too busy visually inhaling his new set of clothes; a simple, grey, long sleeve and some jeans. Not his sheriffs' hat. But he still has the odd shoes. Is it odd to get a sudden urge to eat someone? Not eat like Terminus but eat like _eat. . ._

_'Apodyopsis'_ I think is the term used when one mentally undresses someone.

We stop because there is a Daryl (and dead possum) on the porch beside us and a houseful of people on our other side and a Judith on my hip and a Tara smirking to herself as she tries not to notice us, and this is definitely not the time to be thinking of these kinds of things.

In a few minutes the rest of us gather and accompany each other to the main gate to get our things. Daryl and Rosita decide to drive in. Daryl's still carrying his possum and asks me to hold on to it while he takes the RV over to Deanna's. The possum smells and is dripping, and makes me think of Hansel and Gretel. If we follow the blood, we can get back home again. . .

But where is home now?

It takes a little while for us to organise and unpack so that Deana and Olivia and a few other new faces like Carter (a scrawny, groomed man with tight pale skin and balding brown hair) and Tobin (a tall man with a farmer-tan and a goofy smile and jeans held up with a belt like they're too big, like he's a scarecrow full of straw) can all decide where our things can go. Most of it we will take to the first and second house with us, since it's ours, but some things like weapons and supplies and the last of the water will go into the pantry or armoury or wherever.

While all this happens, most of us that don't have a lot to do sit on the bank by the lake and wait. Carl and I sit back to back, Judith in his lap, possum definitely not in mine. Maggie and Gabriel and Eugene and Rosita are all talking amongst ourselves quietly. I hear kids laughing but when Carl and I look around we don't see them, except one boy I see with red hair, but only catch a glimpse of. I possibly don't even see him at all because Carl says he didn't see anybody. Regardless, red-head real or not, he ran off once he got his basketball back. I'm aware of the anxiety rock in my stomach but I don't draw much attention to it. I can also hear a dog barking occasionally.

Finally, they're set and we head back to 101, the first house, arms full. I've got my backpack and Judith. Carl's lugging the brown and green striped supply bag that we've had since the Grove over his shoulder.

There is a man on the front porch.

I really don't want to hand over anymore pecans today, so I stop and let someone else go first. Maybe I'll avoid this altogether and use the back door. But then the man speaks and I realise he isn't a stranger at all. No new face. Just a shaven one. . .

"Oliver, it's me."

"Woah!"

My mouth falls open, a mixture of a laugh and a gasp falling between the giant gap in my lips as I finally recognise Rick, clean shaven and with a haircut like I've never seen before.

Judith frowns suspiciously, recognising him but not recognising him, and then she cries, because change is _oh so scary_ and she doesn't like it at all. I laugh at her, handing her over to him even when she screams for me not to, because _that non-hairy person could not possibly be her father in a million years!_ But then Rick coos to her, and she suddenly stops crying, and for a surprisingly intense moment (for a baby at least), father's gaze locks on to daughter's, and then she sees him. . . really sees him. . . and she folds into his chest and buries her forehead into the crook of his neck. Because_ where on Earth had he gone off to for so long anyway? She was worried sick!_

I head back upstairs, thinking of that mattress on that bed with those pillows and that comforter. . .

And I flop.

Face first, colliding into the bed like I'd just been shot all over again. I lie here, letting out a long, happy sigh. This is a double bed, and so I'm about a thousand percent sure that if we get our own beds this definitely won't be mine, so I tell myself not to get comfortable, resisting the urge to shrivel up under the comforter and die. I roll over to at least face upward so that I can _look_ like I'm about to stand up.

But I don't.

It's someone walking into the bedroom that gets me to finally lift my head. Upon seeing it's only Carl, I grin, then collapse back again.

Carl flops, too.

I'd laugh, but I'm becoming imaginary again like before. I close my eyes and jostle to the bouncy mattress. I can feel him watching me, so I look at him, feeling high, and I smile. I feel it shake.

"What's wrong?" Carl asks. I have to swallow and wipe my eye with a thumb.

"Nothing." I shake my head. "Just not used to this. Being in a bedroom, in a house."

Carl grins into the mattress and says, "Then relax."

A wave of nostalgia washes over me, remembering Mika say the same thing to Tyreese once. Carl flips over, presses our foreheads. At a bird's-eye-view we make a sort of 'V' shape on the bed, our heads being the pointy part.

"You know?" Carl says. I stare at the blue for so long I go blind. "This feels like the perfect time to kiss you 'til I can't feel my face anymore."

I snort.

"But, I can't move right now."

We both laugh. I put my hand up on his throat, feel his pulse. See it. It's a dragon and it eats me. Burns me to a crisp.

"I hope you don't take it personally," he whispers.

"I won't," I breathe, "promise."

"Wait."

"Huh?"

"Is that glitter?"

I laugh, and he touches my hand and runs his finger over my palm. My hand twitches. I don't know why this makes him grin like he's just been told he can pick the colour of every sunrise from now on but it does. I've asked him before but he never tells me.

His eyes water.

"What's up?" I ask curiously.

"Nothing, I'm just..." He tangles our fingers tightly as if it's not a pause but rather part of his sentence. "I'm really glad you went to that candy shop that day."

For some ridiculous heart-breaking moment, I can't even fathom how in love with him I am. It blows itself off kilter, sky rockets through the roof, like those magic beans from Jack and the Bean Stalk. This whole day is like one new fairy tale. Tears well in my eyes and all I let out a choked hiccup. I think I'm glowing. I think I'm bursting with happy. Him, too. I really do go blind.

"I'm glad I did, too."

I am an emotional wreck when he tells me I am beautiful. I've never been called that. It isn't so much that he called me it it's more the way he said it. Simply. Quietly. Like it took his breath away but like it was the easiest thing he's ever done all at once. All I can do is be aware of the way my eyebrows arch in the middle against his, the sudden tears spilling and running down to my ear, how my eyes open and stare at him, completely stunned to silence, love-struck, as if the magnitude of my feelings for him had only just been recognised.

He gives me a minute, his eyes two bluer than blue crystals this close, big and perfect enough for me to climb inside and die there. I think, in any other circumstance, I wouldn't even think twice about rolling over and tackling him to the floor as if I'd found myself in a room made out of cotton candy, but this moment feels too delicate, too perfect to be disrupted with anything more than simply being in each other's company, smiling and love-struck and holding onto that little part of each other between our fingers and thumbs and palms.

The door had been left open, and we hear someone at the staircase. It's Rick. I can't tell if he's only just stopped there or if he's been there this whole time. By the look on his face like he's just realised something that's knocked him off balance, I'd say the latter. I sit up and quickly wipe my eyes with my free wrist. Carl sits up to, slower, watching his father step forward and lean on the frame of the door, when he speaks, his voice is choked, ever so slightly, all heavy and thick and soft. . .

"Boys," he says, "come help us get the floor ready for tonight."

In truth, there isn't all that much we have to do down here, so once we're all done pushing couches and tables around the room for space, Rick makes his way out onto the porch with Carol and Daryl, and me and Carl follow him. Daryl is gutting his possum and I spend a second staring at the globule of small organs on the decking in front of his boots.

Carl brushes my shoulder with his, pulling my attention from the possum to his eyes, which are locked on the empty second house. None of us have had a look in it yet, and his idea spreads to me immediately like flicking on a lightbulb. Rick catches our epiphany, and watches Carl gesture with his head, his brow risen and hidden under his fringe with the silent question practically spilling from every part of him.

"Go on," Rick allows, "jus' be quick."

Carl grabs my sleeve with one hand and the handle of his knife with the other, letting out a quick, "'Kay," as he drags me off the porch. I notice the way Rick silently asks Carol to follow us and I remind myself not to get too cosy yet. Still, Carl and I jog-walk across the thin grass verge, catching a glimpse of the steel beam wall and the driveway that leads all the way around the back of the houses on this side of the block (there are only three including the first and second house we now occupy).

We climb the steps.

The second house is just as big as 101. Big doors, a barbeque, chairs, lanterns. The house mat says _'Home'_ but I don't believe it. There's also a small pile of firewood by the front door. Speaking _of_ the front door, this one is far less colourful; painted black rather than yellow like the other house. I've decided they look like they were smeared with bananas, but in a good way, and then I realise I've said this aloud because Carl is snickering at me.

Inside, directly in front of the door is the staircase leading upstairs. To the right, as you go in, is the living room, the dining room, and the kitchen, which are all in one big living area with a chandelier over the dining room table that looks like it would crush you to dust if it fell. There's a grey couch and a glass coffee table and a TV mounted above a marble white fireplace, and either side of that are two bookshelves built into the wall that I gawp at. All the windows have brown blinds, and the walls are all pale and some have framed paintings of flowers. This house has a more modern aesthetic to it, with designer stools at an island plant and a toaster that looks like a spaceship for fairies.

Carol closes the door behind us.

I'm in the middle of doing a full three-sixty turn, when Carl says, "They're like mansions." He's in the kitchen, but meets me by the bookshelf while I take in a massive eyeful of whatever the hell this thing is. It looks like a metal feather mounted on a plaque, but it could also be a thin leaf. No, it's a feather. There's another one on the other bookshelf in a symmetrical layout.

Carol agrees with a sceptical, "_Mhmm…_" She's looking out the window onto the street. "And they're just giving them away."

I look over to her and she meets my eyes anxiously, then picks up a notebook and pencil from the cabinet and steps toward the door. . .

"You comin'?"

I'm crouched and playing with a paperweight that's just one end of a bicycle on each part, and I look around to her. Carl takes the words from my mouth: "Yeah. One sec."

Carol leaves.

"Hey, d'you like Frankenstein?" Carl asks me.

"It's alright." I'm in the kitchen now, still excited over working taps so I dunk my whole hand under the flow, then the other. When he shakes his head at me for it I switch it off and hop up and sit onto the island. "Read it in school, that's about it."

"It's kinda sad. I mean, Frankenstein didn't mean to scare people so much."

"Frankenstein was the scientist, not the monster."

"Oh." Carl shrugs it off, reaches for another book. "What about Edgar Allen Poe, ever read his stuff?"

"Nope."

He picks up the book anyway and walks over to me, presenting the thick hard-back. I smile and ask, in his accent, "Can you read to me?"

Carl narrows his eyes.

I may have milked the accent a little.

"Sarcastic ass," he insults.

"Ouch. You know, you're getting better at come-backs."

"Want me to read the thing or not?"

I nod eagerly.

Carl steps over to me, slowly and ever so slightly a little_ completely_ suggestively trailing his hand across the counter top. I do well to ignore his hand as he rests it on my knee-cap. But when he squeezes this tiny bit, I bite my lip. I touch his hand but stop before I pull when I feel water from my fingers soak into my jeans, snapping me awake.

I smile wanly and shake my head.

"You don't want me to?"

"To what?"

His answer in my head is far more explicit than the answer he says out loud. He says, "Read to you," but I gulp anyway. He laughs. Then folds through pages until he finds something that sticks out to him. When he clears his throat I want to swallow his breath. . .

"_If you wish to forget anything on the spot,_" he reads, glancing up at me between the words swimming in his eyes, "_make a note that this thing is to be remembered._"

I breathe a smile and lean forward to rest my forehead on his shoulder, listening while he flips pages and keeps reading. . .

"_The true genius shudders at incompleteness, and usually prefers silence to saying something which is not everything it should be."_

He tilts his head and I can feel him smiling expectantly, and I say nothing. Carl touches my neck with his smile, scopes, says, "You'll like this one," then, into my skin, reads. . .

"_We loved with love that was more than love."_

**_Oh shit, _**I think. _Here we go again. . ._

I tell him, "We should kiss," and he says, "Genius," and I can feel the hairs over my body standing to attention, reaching out to him like they'll all pull him into my skin, and then we're kissing.

Carl once admitted thinking of our kisses as wild and whirring. And they are. They _so_ are. So we don't stop kissing for anything. The taps burst and we keep on kissing. The fridge starts walking and we keep on kissing. The freaking house catches fire and the earth splits open and the stars collapse on our heads. . .

And.

We.

Keep.

On.

Kissing.

Edgar Allen Poe thuds to the floor and I'm about to die of kissing when the only thing that actually could pull us apart goes ahead and does exactly that. Because upstairs, there is a noise. Carl hears it too and we both stagger to look up.

Footsteps.

We're already at the staircase, silently creeping up.

There's a creek and my heart stops.

Carl glances back at me, one hand skimming up the banister and I am short on his tail. We get to the top to see all the doors on the second floor open and empty inside, bar one, which is closed. Another creak, with something like a thump or a soft bump inside, and scuffling.

Lizzie's knife is in my hand instantly, Carl's knife making a sharp _shling _as he pulls it out. We edge to the door, heartbeats pounding in sync. I can feel his in my throat. Maybe I swallowed it, before. Maybe he swallowed mine. I am completely okay with this, by the way.

He places a hand on the knob and glances at me. I put up my free hand, holding up four fingers and pointing at the last, then counting down with them. _Four, three, two, one. . ._ Carl swings the door open with a crack. We both brace, but relax when we see how empty the room is.

My shoulders drop, and I look at him. Carl purses his lips back. I lead the way inside. The whole room is unfurnished, board tiles for the floor, wooden dry wall, a window on the wall opposite us and then another on the left wall. It's more like an attic, really, and it's a mess in here. A half-finished jigsaw puzzle is laid in the corner by an empty wash bowl, the pieces strews all over the place, cushions and blankets are ordered against the walls and CD's and comic books are scattered like they've been in a piggy in the middle game. There are music posters up on the walls, and on a CD player that's set up on a cardboard box with speakers propped either side, there is a fake scull with yellow goggles on and a blue paper crown. It's either disturbing or pretty cool, I can't decide.

Carl picks up a comic called _Wolf Fight! _and I pick up one I recognise, _Invincible. _I show it to him. But the look on his face he's read it before, and by the look on my face he knows I know this. I was just showing him, geeze. He smirks. I push his shoulder.

Carl looks up from _Wolf Fight!,_ tells me, "Dad wants us to meet them."

"The other kids?"

"Yeah. He met a lady. Said she has two kids, one's our age."

"Oh."

I don't know why this surprises me so much. Seeing as we're in a fairly obvious teenage hang-out spot. But it does. The very idea of seeing another kid our age is somehow beyond me, as if I'd thought they didn't even exist anymore.

"You okay?"

I nod.

"What's up?" he insists.

Shrug, then I say quietly, "Been a while since I talked to a kid my age."

"What am I?" he grimaces. "You're imaginary friend?"

I chuckle and say, "Sometimes."

It really is worrying how that isn't entirely a joke.

He cups the back of my neck, jostles me, and I know this all just reminds him of a certain handing-over-pecans incident. At least he's doing his best not to find it all too funny.

"You'll be okay, Oliver."

I smile because I believe him. If he told me I'd fall from a building and bounce along the curb, I'd believe him. He chuckles. I scoop up another three comics. Carl grins.

"Compulsive hoarder."

I pause, realising he's right, so I put them all back bar _Invincible. _I'm stuffing it my jeans and he's stuffing his into his own, and we grin at each other and he switches on the CD player. Suddenly, sound blasts across Virginia and knocks me through the whole house.

"_Nyah_!"

Carl, too, jumps out of his own body.

"Carl, turn it off!"

"I don't know how!"

I laugh, rushing over and yanking the plug from the wall and it goes silent again. We're out of breath with adrenaline.

"What the hell was that?" he asks, offended like I'd done it.

"That..." I'm laughing hysterically, "was Michael Jackson."

* * *

**Carl's POV**

Two woman, one who was quiet with dark skin and black curly hair and another who said her name was Barbra who had freckly skin and long ginger hair, came by earlier with some Shepard's pies for all of us. The smell was one thing. I'm convinced that I've never smelt anything so brilliant before in my life. Oliver's pupils were blowing, which almost made me a little jealous, but I was too hungry to be jealous, we all were. But then, the taste._ God,_ the taste. It was hot and meaty and fresh and fluffy.

Now?

We're all in 101. It's pretty late, and we're all sleeping here tonight. We've agreed it's safer. Amongst the tired mumble of people getting ready for sleep, Oliver is over with Carol. She is sat on the couch drawing a mind-map of this place, and he is sat in front of her, on the floor with his back to her knee. I'm not sure why he isn't just sat beside her, as there is more than enough room for him. It's never occurred to me until now that Oliver just prefers the floor. He's reading the Wolf fight! comic now, since I finished it.

In this very moment, Maggie is sniffing clean sheets and Glenn is falling in love with her for it (he's also setting up a bed for her). Tara is reading on her own set-up bed in the middle of the room, Rosita led beside her on the inglenook, Eugene beside her. Sasha is sat on the coffee table staring off into a void that nobody else can see, and Abraham is watching her, like he _can _see. Gabriel is somewhere upstairs, Michonne is in the bathroom, and Noah is looking through the cabinet next to me. Dad is putting Judith in her cot, and Daryl, beside them sat on the chest, is whispering that she's a, "Good little ass kicker."

Me?

I'm drawing.

Have you ever gone so long without something that you forget how good it is? That's me, now, drawing my brains out. Splattering my mind over a single page torn from Carol's notebook. I found another pencil. I used to draw a lot back in King County. The day Dad got shot, I remember drawing a picture of us riding on the back of a lion (it had antlers and wings and hooves, but the body and head were _all _predator). It was probably terrible but everyone told me it was good when Mrs. Mueller showed it at the end of class. I was going to show it to Dad when I got home, but we went to the hospital instead, and after that I didn't really draw much of anything. It was hard to draw when Mom's worry turned the air black.

Now though, I am drawing again since the prison and the air is a rainbow. Every time Oliver glances at me across the room, he adds a whole new spectrum. It must be the glitter from his shower. He loads colour into my head like ammo, handful after handful, and it explodes out of my eyeballs. Luckily only I can see it, otherwise it would make one hell of a mess. I don't tell him I'm drawing him. I don't tell him that I'm actually really really good at drawing him; his resting frown and his big big eyes and his collarbones that make me feel like a puddle if I look at them too long. I don't tell him that when I get his nose right, how big and long and perfect it is, that it is the reason why I have to get up from my chair and wash my hands in the sink for a few minutes until all the _GAHH! _rubs off and I can calm down again. Noah asks if I'm okay and I tell him I'm being Oliverfied only I actually say I'm fine and go sit down again.

I put the drawing away and start re-reading _Invincible, _and a few minutes later Michonne emerges from the bathroom. I smirk, catching Oliver's lifted eyebrows at me, and I lift mine back in challenge. We'd made a bet a while ago. When she hit minute seven, I betted that she'd be over half an hour and Oliver betted under.

"How long was I in there for?" Michonne mumbles giddily, rubbing her nose, toothbrush in hand.

"Twenty minutes," Dad says.

Shit.

"I could not stop brushing," Michonne croaks.

Oliver won.

I ignore the grin on Oliver's face while I reach into my pocket and throw an energy bar in his direction across the room, (the quiet lady gave it to me). Oliver catches it easily and pockets it with a nod of cocky thanks.

"Dork," I mutter under my breath, even though I mean, "I love you so much."

Noah snickers, at first I think at me but I realise he's reading Oliver's pun book. Like Oliver's odd habit of sitting on the floor, Noah likes to sleep under tables, it seems. Then again there isn't much room anywhere else. I know that wherever I sleep I'll likely just take up one space with Oliver.

I'm vaguely aware of Dad and Michonne's conversation as I focus back on my comic again, smirking to myself when Michonne compliments my father's 'new face', before the two go into the kitchen area to talk privately.

"Did you get assigned a job?" Oliver asks Carol quietly.

"Cook, for the seniors and a few of the busy moms."

He nods. I catch his frown, most likely not expecting her to settle for such a domestic job. He doesn't press. Deanna had given all of us jobs, more or less. Tara, Glenn, and Noah are going to help out on runs, Gabriel has his own church again (which is just a garage across the street from Deanna's house), Maggie is helping Deanna run the place, like an assistant, Eugene was made into an engineer, Abraham was put on construction work, and Rosita is... well, actually, I'm not sure, I think she's been assigned to medical assistant with Alexandria's doctor, who I think is called Pete.

"What about you?" Carol asks him. "Were you given anything?"

Oliver shakes his head. Me and him are supposed to just help out with chores. Look after Judith. I can't tell if Oliver is disappointed or just tired. Sometimes it's hard to tell. It's even harder because he doesn't say anything, because usually the final ruling vote on determining how he's feeling is the tone in his voice, and without it, even I get confused sometimes.

It hadn't occurred to me that Oliver might not be as indifferent as I'd thought to the minimal responsibility Deanna had given us. Carol looks at him with the same confusion and suspicion.

There is a knock at the front door.

Our guards come up like upside down guillotines.

Dad parts from Michonne and answers it. It's Deanna.

"Rick, I—"

She falls silent, stares at him, mouth open.

"_Wow._"

Dad groans uncomfortably.

"I didn't know what was under there," Deanna adds. Jesus, even _I_ blush. But thankfully she moves on. "Listen, I... I don't mean to interrupt, I just wanted to stop by and see how you were all settling in—"

She trails when she sees us all.

"Oh my..." Deanna says quietly, "you're staying together. Smart."

"No one said we couldn't," Dad says, his hand still on the door.

"You said you were a family. That's what you said."

This, evidently, was not the response Dad was expecting. I guess it's more laid back her than he thought. The pause is a little uncomfortable. Oliver's tapping his fingers on the floor by his leg, not realising.

"It's absolutely amazing to me how people, with completely different backgrounds and nothing in common, can become that. Don't you think?"

We all know this, of course, but I guess we just haven't really thought about it in a while.

"Everybody said you gave them jobs," Rick says.

"Yeah." Deanna hums, smiling with her eyes. "Part of this place." She chuckles. "Looks like the Communists won after all."

Dad smiles dryly, "Well, you didn't give me one."

"I have," Deanna says knowingly. "I just haven't told you yet."

Excitement flutters in my chest.

"Same with Michonne."

Excitement intensifies. I don't move a muscle. Inside my body is a cartwheel of fire but outside I'm an empty wall. It's either sad or impressive how easy I can hide how I feel.

"I'm closing in on something for Sasha," Deanna goes on, sighing. "And I'm just trying to figure Mr. Dixon out. But I will." Then she leaves, though, not before smirking at Dad, serving a confident, "You look good," to him, to which, when he closes the door, he blushes darker than I think I've ever witnessed in my life.

He comes back into the living room and takes a seat beside Carol. I grin into my comic book, knowing that the moment I look up I'm going to notice how hard Oliver is grinning, too, and we're both going to burst out laughing. It's true that I am good at hiding how I feel, but not much when Oliver is involved. He's like detergent. Breaks through my grime. I can _feel_ the fits of laughter itching at the pit of Oliver's chest. Until I cave, looking up at him, and at the same time we snort our laughter. Tara chuckles at both of us. Then Michonne, and Maggie and Noah.

"Give it up," Dad grumbles, taking Carol's notebook from where she'd put it beside her. When Oliver laughs harder Dad thumps him across the skull.

Oliver doesn't stop.

* * *

**Notes**

Agh, this chapter just re-enforced my love for Judy. Also, yes, Oliver has another beanie hat now. Whoo! I figured he could have a collection :)

And all of you that are doing your finals/exams over the next few whatevers, good fucking luck! You can do it!

Sorry this was a few days late, but I started a new job and everything was so busy. The next chapter should be up in a few days, and it's a special one!

**Preview: The boys are meeting the Alexandrian kids :D**

As always,  
Happy reading :_)_


	9. Remember, Part 3: Beasts, Dinos & Boys

**DarthGranola** Haha, yep, happy chappys are my favourite :D

**BloodGutsandChocolatePudding **Isn't she awesome? Ah. Haha, yeeeep, it's pretty... interesting... to say the least... enjoy. :S

* * *

**Okay, so, this is where things'll change a little... Bear with me, I do have a plan, (lol jk no i don't) but yeah, just try to keep an open mind during this chapter, sincerely hope you enjoy.**

* * *

**"Featherstone" by The Paper Kites**

* * *

**Carl's POV**

There's only one word that comes into my head upon regaining consciousness. . .

Tangled.

I try to lift my right leg, only it isn't even my leg. I'm on top of him, Oliver; not with my head or hand on his chest like I sometimes do, or vice versa, but quite literally wrapped around, tangled, and on top of him. My face is buried into the groove of his neck, breathing through the smushed gap against his Adam's apple, his pulse, steady and constant against my mouth. I wipe away drool before he notices. What I now realise _is _my right leg, is actually snaked around his left, my left between both his legs, and his right spread off to the side. His foot is tucked under mine though, somehow. My arms are under his, around the back of his shoulders with his head rested in my palms as if I'd purposely acted as a pillow. Maybe he'd put them there. His arms are splayed I realise, one above him and the other draped over my back.

I'm not indifferent to this. Really, I'm not. I'd happily stay like this for the rest of the day if I were given the option to. The problem? I'm not the only person awake. Everyone is. Everyone except him.

My cheeks burn. I lift my head and let out a grunt in my attempt to untangle myself from him, already hearing someone laughing at us under their breath but too flustered to look over my shoulder yet. It's probably Michonne, or Tara, or Noah, or Rosita, heck, anyone really. Oliver's head is still in my palms, still fast asleep, and I'm still half straddling him, awkwardly having to kind of make sure that his more intimate areas don't get crushed under my knee as I dismount him and carefully lift his head before replacing it on the floor. I put a flannel shirt under him and someone _aww_'s. My eyes shut and I take a deep breath, telling myself that we were lucky that nothing even more indignant hadn't decided to show up either. That day in the suburb was enough.

Once I collect myself, I glance over my shoulder, rolling my eyes at the laughter-culprit before sitting back and rubbing my eyes as nonchalantly as I can.

"Morning," I mumble.

"Mornin'," Maggie grins. Carol and Tara are also stifling their smirks, starting their morning with everyone else.

"What're we doing today?" I ask. I want to hide under my hat but as I reach for it, I pause, then choose to leave it. I don't need it. Maggie smiles as she watches this.

"Think we're jus' getting a feel of the place, explore, like Deanna said."

I nod.

"You should wake him," Dad tells me a moment later, drying his hands on a dish cloth as he strolls in from the kitchen. He dodges around Glenn, who dodges around Noah, who almost knocks over the sculpture of an octopus, which Sasha catches. It's a little cluttered. But I guess we're used to it. Dad says, "Get yourself showered and ready to go, okay?"

"Yep." I turn back to Oliver, tapping his shoulder. "Hey."

He doesn't stir. I pat his chest.

"Hey. Oliver."

A groan, and he pushes my hand away and rolls over on to his front.

"Oliver, wake up," I insist, grunting it with a thump on his shoulder-blade and an annoyed sigh that isn't really annoyed at all. He looks at me, twisting his face all ridiculously and goofily and Oliverly.

"Hey, man," he yawns.

"Hi."

He watches me bring my knees up and rest my arms around them, smirking at me like he knows something I don't.

"What is it?" I ask.

"Finally got off me then?"

I scoff, jostle his hip with my foot, and say, "Whatever."

* * *

**Anonymous' POV**

If you look at something long enough, sometimes, what you're looking at shows you more than what you were looking for. Like the sky. Blue, today. A little cloud. Nothing else, or so it seems. 'Cause when you look a little harder you see the falcon hovering overhead, its eyes on the ground searching for its lunch, and then you notice that the moon is still visible right now, as is a tiny dot of a planet nearby it. Sometimes, too, if you look too long you start to make up things. Like the massive meteorite incoming and about to blow us all to smithereens. But not really. Only the dinos got to see that happen. I read a book the other day all about dinosaurs. and it turns out that birds are descendants of them, and that the falcon I can still see is technically classified as a raptor, too. Cool, huh?

Anyway, I digress.

I'm at the window, staring up. My friends are talking but I'm only half listening. I'm imagining them all as dinosaur hybrids now and it's making me crack up all over the place. Luckily nobody notices. I like my friends. I like Mikey. If Mikey were a dinosaur he would be one of those gigantic long-neck-and-tailed herbivores; completely harmless with a big heart and a pacifistic nature, but, you know, the social skills clumsy enough that he'll most likely step on his own tail. Ron, on the other hand, would be a Velociraptor. The ones with the big claw on each foot that they use to stab things with. I don't mean he's vicious. Far from it, actually. Sure, he can lose his temper sometimes but he would never hurt anybody. I'm more thinking about this one raptor I read about. Its fossils were found tangled with a Wendiceratops. The raptor sunk its claw in the wendi's throat and got stuck there, and in the end they both died. I feel like Ron can relate to that raptor a lot, maybe. He's not exactly one for very well thought out decisions, but, I mean, he has good taste in videogames.

Then there's Enid.

Enid is my favourite kind of dinosaur.

She's a Parasaurolophus.

Mysterious, agile, intelligent, and _totally _beautiful.

_(She also has wings but nobody knows about them except me and her. Not even the fossil scientists did)_

I don't know what type of dinosaur I would be. Probably that little one in that old movie with the colourful crest that spat venom into the big guy's face.

_(I didn't like that dinosaur. It gave me nightmares for weeks)_

But it's definitely me.

Colourful but venomous.

Enid tells us Aaron brought in a bunch this time.

"Yeah," Ron says, "Mom told me yesterday. She cut some dude's hair."

"Wait," I say. "When did they all get here?"

She doesn't look up from her comic book. "Yesterday morning. While you were helping out at school."

"I still don't understand why you _willingly_ do that," Mikey tells me, engrossed in Spyro.

"I like it."

"It's boring."

"_You're _boring."

He looks up at me like he'd taken that personally, so I smile and he feels better.

"Helping out is different," I say. "There's something to focus on, the kids rely on me. It's still shitty and boring, but it's tolerable, you know? It has a purpose."

Ron looks at me like I've just fallen over in vomit.

"Did you get into Mr. Anderson's beer stash?" Mikey asks me.

"No."

"Hm. Maybe you should've," he says.

Ron thumps him. As much as Ron doesn't like his father's drinking habit, he's not about to let anyone take the piss out of it.

"Ouch!" Mikey rubs his arm. "Crap, Ron!"

"So, what about the newbies?" Ron asks her. Enid and Ron are boyfriend and girlfriend. You wouldn't think a Velociraptor and a Parasaurolophus would make a very good couple but they do. Ron and Enid are like jigsaw pieces from two separate puzzles that fit together anyway.

She watches him for a moment, then looks at Mikey (he's still rubbing his sore arm), and then she looks directly at me, in that _Enid way_ of hers; testing the water before deciding to swim. She doesn't take the dive. Just shrugs. Enid is fond of shrugging. Thing is, Enid is contagious. So, like an Enid mirror, Mikey shrugs and Ron shrugs and the hawk outside shrugs and every living and dead body in Virginia shrugs. . .

Except me.

I narrow my eyes at her.

"You saw them, didn't you?"

Again, Enid shrugs.

Jesus, I think, she snuck out _again_? I don't even need to ask if she did. She always does. On the rare occasion that I catch her, I go with her. But usually I just don't. Usually I can feel her crawl out of bed and I can hear her get dressed and I pretend I'm asleep and not a little-lot hurt while she sneaks out of the house without me. As much as we like each other's company, things are complicated. Not complicated, but complicated, like how gravity is a thing and it keeps you on the ground but will also crush you if you fall far enough.

Enid gives me a _keep your mouth shut_ look and I smirk. She blinks, it means: _Sit with me and I'll tell you, _so I do, shoulder to shoulder with our backs to the headrest. We look at the comic together and whisper into the splash page of some dude getting his eyeball scooped out by a spoon.

"Yes," she answers finally, whispering. "I did see them."

"You think they're okay?" Ron asks. We both startle because we didn't know he was listening. "Like, okay, okay?"

She frowns at him and shrugs, looking back to her comic. Ron exchanges an exasperated glance with me, silently asking me to get the information from her for him because according to him (and Mikey) I'm the only person who can. Parasaurolophi and Velociraptors may make good couples but they aren't very good at talking to each other.

"I kind of need to know," Ron adds when I do nothing. "Mom's bringing two of them over later."

Mikey pipes up. "Really?"

"Yeah, two guys. Mom's not let it go since she heard about'em."

"You mean _you_ haven't."

Ron shoves him. "Shut up."

Mikey snickers.

"Okay, fine," Ron admits. "_I _asked. Mom said they've been out there a while, but, I dunno, I didn't think about if they were gonna be crazy."

"Aaron thinks they're okay," Mikey reassures him. Mikey knows things. He doesn't know things like Enid knows things but he still knows some things. It helps that his father is Nicholas, who is our runner with Aiden, one of Deanna's two sons. Nicholas and Aiden go outside the walls, like Aaron and Eric, only they find supplies and food rather than people. But still, they get to knowing some things. Mikey meets my eyes and smiles gently, then looks away. Sometimes Mikey looks at me like we have a secret together, even though I have no idea what the secret is. "He would've watched them for a while out there," he goes on, "with the dead ones. So, they'll be okay."

"You make them sound like rescue dogs," I comment.

"It's probably not far off the mark," Ron says. "You weren't when you got here."

I flip him off.

"So, your pa told you that?" Ron asks Mikey once he's done smirking at me.

"Not exactly," Mikey admits. "But Dad wouldn't have let them in if not."

Ron nods.

My notebook opens and I flip through to my _To Do List, _write: _— Pick up kibble from Olivia_. I look at Enid because she blows at my cheek. Enid looks at me like Mikey looks at me. Like we have a secret. Only I know what our secret is.

"How many?" I whisper.

"Sixteen."

"What are they like?" Mikey asks, both him and Ron turning from the videogame.

It's hard enough getting her to talk to me, let alone when there are disruptions. Enid reads her comic, turning the page to a gory battle action sequence. Enid does that. If she doesn't have an answer for a question, or if she doesn't want to discuss it, she simply ignores you. Maybe it's rude. No, it totally is. But I kind of find it funny, but only because she rarely does it to me. Though, it really isn't very funny when she does do it to me.

"Did they seem tough?" Ron tries. "Scary?"

Enid sighs, realising that she's been fully dragged into this conversation whether she likes it or not. To maim him, she shoots him a glare that knocks him out cold, in her head, outside of it he just smirks and waits for her to speak. . .

"Terrifying."

"Come on, Enid," Ron insists. There's no point to take Enid's lack of cooperation personally. That would be like asking a rotter to eat a carrot. He tries another strategy. Puppy dog eyes out at full force. "Pleeeeeeeeeeeeease?"

It works.

With a grudge.

"There were ten or so guys, I think. One looks like a priest, one looks like some kinda wrestler, one's got a crossbow. Two of them are being made Constables."

I look up to her. "They've only been here a day."

"One was a Cop before, Richie, or Robby or something."

Eves-dropping is kind of the equivalent of Enid's college major.

"The other's a woman. She's got a katana."

"That makes it okay then, huh?"

The girl does her best to subdue her grin, but it spreads over her lips against her will before she manages to control it again. Enid has a nice smile, but it's on the rare occasion that she'll let anyone see it.

"What were the rest like?" Ron asks, strolling across the room and pressing the eject button on the console.

Mikey blinks in outrage, growing like an angry balloon, but deflates completely with a long and hard sigh.

"Shush," Ron murmurs anyway. Raptors often like to mess with poor, clumsy, long-necked dinos. He fiddles with the console and changes disks. "We're playing Mario Cart now."

Mikey roars at him but it sounds more like a tiny grunt. Ron grins at him, adds himself as a player, then slumps down on the bean bag to jostle him. Mikey rolls his eyes. Luckily though, he likes Mario Cart. Enid's gone back to her comic, assuming that she doesn't have to answer from their distraction, but she's wrong.

"Who else?" Ron says. "You said there were more."

"There were about six women," she answers. "One looks like a small version of Lara Croft. The one with the katana, the Constable, had dreadlocks, I think. One had short hair, like yours." She motions to me. "But hers was grey and—"

"Enid, I'm not talking about their hair," Ron interrupts.

Enid looks at him like she really will knock him out.

"Cut her some slack," I defend her, stifling my chuckles. "It's not like she would've talked to them about their life stories. Did any of them see you?"

"No. I didn't want them to talk to me."

"Like you'd talk to them anyway," Mikey tells Yoshi, flicking through characters. Ron picks Bowser and then snatches Mikey's controller and picks Baby Princess Peach over Donkey Kong, grinning at him like: _You're welcome, princess, _and Mikey shakes his head in annoyance and then they're both waiting for the race to start. Mikey, princess or not, will still kick his virtual ass.

Soon they're immersed in their game, their backs to us, so Enid reaches over and takes my notebook. I resist, but she doesn't relent, just holds my eye contact for a moment with honest-looking lifted eyebrows. So I let go, trusting her not to nose through. She flips to a blank page, gesturing I give her my pen and I do. . .

_'one saw me'_

I sigh, giving her a:_ You're gonna get so busted if they catch you,_ look, to which she narrows her eyes in that tentative:_Stop worrying,_ look back at me.

_'Who?' _I write.

Ron is squashed by Mikey's missile and gets right in his face and yells, "MUTINY!" and Mikey grins without looking at him and says back, "With love from your baby princess," and Ron says back, "My _bitch, _more like!" and then Jessie is yelling at us all from downstairs so Ron apologises and throttles Mikey at the same time because he's making small kissey noises out the corner of his mouth at him between his laughter. They pause the game to wrestle for a second, until Ron_Pfft_'s loudly and kicks him in the shin, resuming the game and doing his best to recover with violent button mashing.

Enid still hasn't answered me so I bat the page with my finger.

She writes: _'a boy'_

_'One coming over later?'_

Shrug.

_'You're busted if he recognises you.'_

"There was a baby, too," she suddenly speaks, and I scramble up my note book because she'd only spoken so that the others would look around and end our written conversation. Enid is probably the sneakiest girl I've ever met. Honestly, it's terrifying.

"No way!" Mikey blurts. "Like a real baby?"

Enid nods, also grimaces.

"And you thought you'd just wait until last to tell us that part?" Ron accuses.

Enid just looks back to her comic, and I expect her to ignore him, but she speaks. . .

"It was tiny."

"Malnourished?" I ask.

"Just, tiny."

"I haven't seen a baby in..." I shake my head, "I don't even know."

"Me neither." The other two say in unison.

"You said they'd be over later," I change subject. "How soon is later exactly?"

"Dunno, little while."

"Cool." I stuff my notebook into the back of my jeans and stand up from Ron's bed. "I've gotta go, I'm not sure how much longer Olivia's gonna stand looking after him." Olivia's never been much of a pet person. "I'll be back in a bit."

"Hey," Ron says, only just realising what I'd said and pausing the game again. "Are you bringing him here?"

"Yeah, if that's okay?"

"Yeah, it's fine," Ron says. "The new guys'll probably be here when you both come back."

"Cool," I say, not really sure if I'm looking forward to it or not. We've never had people like their group join us. I've seen bad people.

"Nell, if he steals my jerky again he'll lose his other eye," Mikey warns me. I know he's joking so I rough up his hair while I pass him and tell him to bite a rotter toe.

"Later, guys. And, I promise Bean won't steal your precious jerky again."

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

Judith does not appreciate all the pinching her cheeks experience. She endures Nathalie and Bob Miller with complete grace and elegance, for about three seconds. And then she cries hysterically. I suppose she'll have to get used to it. She gets a lot of attention in Alexandria. Regardless of Judith's disapproval, the Millers _are_ nice to us. They're old and had a hundred children and grandchildren, before they all died. Once Carl gets Judith to settle, Nathalie and Bob let us sit on their porch and eat home-made apple pie that Nathalie made yesterday from the apple trees here. There's no milk or eggs but it still tastes magical.

"Are you two brothers?" Nathalie asks us.

"Oh," Carl answers. He looks at me from his place stood between the two sitting Millers while they all coo to Judy. I'm sat on the edge of the deck. I'd been looking at Rick across the street talking to a blonde woman with pale skin and clothes. Carl sees them, too, says, "No. Uh. Me and Oliver are..."

Rick had taken us aside this morning. Just before we left, actually. He told us to be smart about how much we told people here about us. That we didn't know them and we don't know how they'll react to us. At first I thought he meant after everything we've had to do, and how different that is going to make us seem from them, but then I realised he meant because me and Carl are boyfriends. I get it. I do. So does Carl, so it doesn't bother us much. Rick said it's not a secret. That _we _aren't. That he doesn't think it will cause trouble seeing as Aaron and Eric are openly gay and married. Rick said that he just wanted us to be safe here. And that with time we'd know them and they'd know us, too, and we'd know where to go from there.

"We're friends."

I yack defiant rainbows all over the place, only I don't really, what I really do is squirm so hard my face folds up like curtains.

"Oh, Oliver," Nathalie says, "don't you like the pie?"

_No, I LOVE the pie, ma'am._

I still haven't spoken to them aloud yet, and even now, I just stuff my mouth and smile to show I do like it. Nathalie smiles back, flattered. Bob looks like he's smelled something fishy so I try not to look at him. It's odd. I haven't had to hide in the closet for months. And even then it wasn't like this. This feels like back before, at home. I used to think my mom knew, sometimes. Dad, too. And Patrick (God, one time he had to snap his fingers in front of my face when we were hanging out at the swimming pool to get my attention back from where my eyes had drifted off into the lifeguard's torso). Geeze, sometimes I felt so obvious I thought the kettle knew.

Now though, I think I'm being clocked by the porch chair. I narrow my eyes at it and tell it in my head, "Keep your cushions shut." And it does.

**Carl's POV**

The woman walks away and Dad heads over and asks me and Oliver if we want to meet some kids now. I'm not even looking and I feel Oliver's whole body turn to cement. I try not to laugh while I accept the offer for both of us.

Oliver doesn't want to come, at all.

Regardless, when Dad takes Judith and Oliver and I have returned our empty bowls and Nathalie and Bob wave goodbye, I sling an arm over Oliver's shoulder and drag him to come with. I stop when Dad glances at us, remembering what he'd said before. Does that count as giving us away? I mean, I don't think it does. Dad didn't say anything about it. Still, I'm too self-conscious to put my arm up again.

"Are they her kids?" I ask Dad. "Lady you were with before."

Dad hums his yes. "Her name's Jessie Anderson. She's got two boys. Ron and Sam."

Judith on his hip, he leads us over to the house next door to the secondary house. There's a swinging seat on the porch and the panel walls are pale blue. Oliver isn't breathing and I notice he's turning blue so I thumb him in the chest, and he sucks in a deep breath.

"Geeze, man."

Dad glances around at us, giving me an odd look for my comment. I purse my lips. He knocks on the door. I give Oliver a hard stare to make sure he doesn't forget to keep taking in oxygen.

Jessie Anderson answers the door. The first thing I notice about her is how pretty she is, now that I can see her up close. Her blond hair is up in a messy ponytail and her blue eyes are soft and warm and gentle. She takes us off Dad's hands (her words) quickly, and he stands on the porch for a second with Judith looking like he's not sure how he feels about this, but ultimately, turns and leaves when Jessie says goodbye to him.

Jessie's house is a lot like the ones we've moved in to. Clean, expensive, but you can definitely see that people have lived here for a while, unlike ours. Immediately inside the front door is the living room. To the right is a liquor cabinet; tall glass bottles on top with something clear and orange inside.

I think Jessie is a painter. There is a smudge of purple on her nose and on the other side of the liquor cabinet, in the corner by the windows, is an easel with a half-finished painting and a white arm chair. The coffee table next to it is stocked with paint and my mouth waters. I like drawing. Have done since forever. I haven't made anything in a while and anything I ever have made I haven't made a habit of showing anybody. But seeing her art now, other finished works up on the walls or left to dry along the floor, it makes something in my chest hungry.

Other than this, the rest of the living room and kitchen area just beyond is domestic and aesthetic, with tall doors and white and beige colour themes. The Community's got a feeling of normalcy to it that I'd forgotten how much I actually missed until now. But it's so extremely opposite to what I've gotten used to for a year and a half. Adjusting to it is alien, but, I guess it is only the second day.

"Excuse the mess," Jessie tells us, pulling a face when she notices Oliver staring at a small sculpture of a turtle on the inglenook, "things're a little hectic at the moment. I've been working on a project with the boys."

"Project?" I ask, following her through the kitchen. Tiny toy soldiers are lined up along the island, aiming their shotguns at us.

"Yeah. Me and the kids are building a sculpture of an owl. Your dad, uh... he just, kinda, ran right into it a minute ago. But if anything he probably made an improvement. We just, can't seem to get the eyes right."

Me and Oliver look at each other at the same time.

"Right," I say, turning back to her, "the eyes."

"Hm," Jessie chuckles, gesturing at me. "That's what your dad said."

We go into the hallway. One door leads into a garage that's still left open, and the others must lead to bathrooms and utility rooms or whatever. The staircase is ahead and Jessie calls up.

"Ron! Come down."

There's music playing. Nirvana, I think, but I only know that because Oliver hums it sometimes. I swear, half the songs I know, I only know Oliver's voice in them.

"Okay, Mom."

That one sentence has my mind spinning, and I, too, forget how to breathe for a second. Oliver and I remember at the same time, inhaling in unison before Jessie's son, Ron Anderson, strolls around the banister at the top of the staircase. He comes down in that cool, handsome, older guy way—honestly I didn't actually know this _was_ a _'way' _before now at all, but it is, definitely. He's probably about seventeen or eighteen, pale spotty skin and messy reddish-brown hair, and blue eyes, I see when he's close enough. Blue that's pale for the most part but darker around the edges. He's wearing a clean, worn, brown jacket and a green sweater under it. I realise he's the kind of guy who touches his hair a lot, because he must rake his fingers through it three times before he's stood in front of us at the foot of the stairs.

"Hi, there."

I think I hear Oliver faint inside.

"Sweetie," Jessie smiles, placing a hand on my shoulder as she stands behind me. "This is Carl." We exchange nods and a hand shake. He's so _normal_. I can smell what I can only guess is cologne, now that he's close. It's good. I wonder what I smell like. Probably not like cologne. Probably like dirt and sweat and not normal at all. Ron's tall, too, a few inches over mine and Oliver's heads. I didn't even know I was so short. Am I even short? What's a normal height for my age? Jessie places both hands on Oliver's shoulders. He almost flinches. "And this is Oliver."

Oliver glances at her, then me, then Ron, doing not so well to wipe the complete overwhelmed expression from his face. When Ron extends a steady, strong-looking hand, Oliver looks at it and gapes and then reaches out and shakes it quickly.

Ron smiles confidently, casually, _normal-normalificently-normally_. He says, "Nice to meet you both." He puts his hands in his pockets and sways back and forward on his heels like he's a tin-man on a gear that works perfectly. My gear probably needs more oil, and Oliver's has missing parts. We're rigid tin-boys. Do we need an upgrade? "I'm Ron, but, uh, guess Mom's told you that, huh?"

Oliver and I just sort of stand here, rusting. At least I manage to nod. Ron grins, like he's excited, which makes me feel better because I'm luck my knees aren't falling apart. He looks past us. . .

"Uh, Mom?"

"Oh! Right. Sorry," Jessie puts her hands up, backs away back towards her painting. "I'm going."

When she's gone, Ron turns to us and claps his hands together. When we say nothing, he lifts his eyebrows so they wrinkle his forehead a little. "Come on upstairs," he tells us, "I'll introduce you to the others."

The others?

Okay, I'll admit, I'm a little terrified now. Ron leads the way and Oliver's fingers touch mine when Ron's back is turned, only for a second, before I tug him to go ahead of me and follow up after him.

"We're almost always here after school, so you guys can come by any time," Ron tells us. The landing is tidy and long. Oliver glances back uncomfortably. He checks in every open door before passing it so Ron and I end up walking around him.

"Wait, you go to school?" I ask.

"Uh, it's in a garage," Ron explains, like he thinks it's unimpressive. "Little kids go in the morning an' then it's us in the afternoon." Ron talks with his hands a lot. "Uh, I mean, probably you guys, too, right?"

I glance at Oliver, thinking about Story Time. Ron clearly wants us to go, I guess, so I let my cheeks twitch into a smile and half-heartedly say, "Probably."

We get to an open door at the end of the hallway. We'd been able to partially see the girl sat on the bed reading a comic, but now we see her fully. She's about the same age as Oliver and I, maybe more Oliver's age. She has light skin and long brown hair, is slim, with a sleeveless shirt on and denim jeans and black boots, a flannel tied around her hips. She doesn't look up to us as we stand in the entrance.

Ron taps a fist on the door and I spot another guy across the room sat playing a racing game. He looks maybe a year or so older like Ron, white, too, lanky, with straight black hair that's a little shorter than Oliver's. He's wearing a grey sweater vest and a red polo shirt under it. His jeans are dark blue and his sneakers are black.

Ron's room is messy with clothes strewn all over the place. His bed is made neat, with some kind of colourful robot pattern. On his walls are sports or music posters and under the window is a gaming console. By the bed is a skateboard and a wooden baseball bat. I think there's an en-suit on my left, but I can't quite tell from here.

"Guys," Ron says. He's pointing. "This is Carl, and. Oh, um, Oliver?"

Ron and I have to move out of the way because Oliver hadn't actually shown himself, instead he's waiting patiently for all life to be over behind the door frame, because, by his pale, uptight expression, just meeting the one new face has been enough for him today. When I move, he does well not to be rude, smiling stiffly as he steps into the room, too.

"Carl, Oliver. This is Mikey, and Enid."

Mikey and I exchange small nods. Enid doesn't look at us. I catch Oliver double take at her, looking tense and confused. So I look at him, tense and confused, and then he notices me and stops and physically shudders.

"Hi," Mikey is greeting us. He stands across from us, hands on his hips.

"Hi," Enid seconds, still not looking up. Ron steps over and puts a hand on her shoulder.

"Enid's from outside, too," he says. Slowly, her eyes come up and flicker between us for a moment, lingering on him and I know now for sure that I've missed something. Disinterested, she reads her comic, looking uncomfortable and annoyed. Oliver, too, looks put off, like something tastes bad in his mouth. Ron says, "She just came here eight months ago, with another girl."

"And a dumb mutt that can't keep his paws off my jerky," Mikey adds. Ron smirks. Enid does nothing.

This.

Is.

Very.

Awkward.

"Oh," I remember something, pulling out the comic from my back pocket. "Are these, yours?"

Oliver pulls out his comic, too, handing it to me like the pecans all over again.

"Sorry," Ro chuckles. "We didn't know you guys got that house."

"We mostly just hang up there and listen to music," Mikey smiles. He motions the comics to Enid, who is still ignoring us. "That one's Enid's. The other's Ne—"

She snatches them from me before I get to properly hand them to her, and then without saying anything or even looking at me she tosses them over the other side of the bed. Okay, uh. This is going a lot worse than I thought it would. Is it me? Am I doing something wrong? I look at Oliver desperately, but he looks just as disheartened so I look at the floor.

I feel like I'm in those books where the new kid is made to hang out with the popular kids, and they're either mean or too cool or wear polo shirts and sweater vests. Then I remember that Oliver's here and it makes me feel okay. Oliver's like a spidey suit. I just have to cover myself in all of him and I'm fine. I can do anything. Walk along walls and jump across buildings and get the girl next door, only, get the _boy _instead, or no, get the _Oliver. _Luckily he isn't next door though. Regardless, I can't really do that here, so I opt to taking a small step back so that I can be sure he's still there, his breath just audible behind my ear.

Ron, taking my step as cue to pass us, motions to the TV.

"Wanna play some video games?" he offers. He's talking with his hands again. "Or, Mikey's house has a pool table, but his dad's kinda strict about it, so..."

"It's okay," Mikey grins. "He's at work."

My brain is staggering all over the place. I'm trying to come to terms with the fact that it is all actually happening. I'm trying to process being here, in someone's home, with other kids, who aren't trying to eat me, offering to play_videogames _no less. I'm trying to do all this without questioning or over thinking anything.

I get as far as letting my shoulders and eyes follow Ron across his bedroom, but the rest of my body forgets to move. Jesus, I can't even look at them. I'm swallowing and trying to speak but I go mute. . .

"Erm..."

. . .Crap. Dammit, what am I doing? I bite the insides of my mouth and try not to let the tears squeeze out of my eyes. I swallow again. Die inside. Then die again.

"Sorry," Ron apologises to us. I don't know what Oliver's doing but he must be coping worse than me, right? But they're all looking at me, I'm sure of it. Ron's looking at me like the one uncle at the reunion who made the baby cry. "I guess we come on kinda strong. Uh, we can just hang out?"

I'm thinking of that weird pantry in the secondary house and thinking about hiding in it and never come out again.

"You don't even have to talk if you don't wanna," Mikey tells me.

"Yeah," Ron agrees, smiling reassuringly. "Took Enid three weeks to say something."

"Pull it together, sport."

I almost sob at Enid's voice. But I don't want to cry in front of them. I don't I don't I don't. Jesus, I'm going to. I hold my breath to stop it making any noise.

Oliver holds my hand.

I don't know if he meant to and I know we're not supposed to do this in front of them but I don't care because this is horrible. Even though I think all this, I don't reciprocate right away, which is his intention, I can tell. While he pulls his hand away, each of his digit-tips press to each of mine, slipping across my skin. He's going to let go before anybody sees but I don't want him to go so I close my grip around his fingertips.

Ron notices. They all do.

Oliver takes his hand back quickly. Ron is frowning now and my heart is beating a billion lightyears a second. He's still staring at our empty hands. When he looks up, his smile is nonchalant and genuine. I find my voice. . .

"Let's, um. Let's play some video games."

"Cool. Yeah."

* * *

Video gaming, I have come to realise, is nothing Oliver has forgotten about. It takes him around ten minutes to get good enough moving his fingers and thumbs the way he wants that Mikey and Ron aren't sure what to say to him. To be honest, they don't need to say much. Oliver still doesn't utter a syllable.

We don't play at the same time, Oliver and I. Whenever Ron or Mikey switches the controller to us so that we can play together, the other one of us will stop playing, because one of us needs to see the exit at all times. It may not be necessary, and it may seem a little strange or rude, but we still have each other's backs, even here. Only, instead of wielding a knife or gun, we're keeping our backs to the wall and the door in our frontal view.

We can never let our guard down.

It only takes one second.

One second and it's all over.

After a while, when Mikey and Ron have long accepted that both me and Oliver are as comfortable as we can be, sat with our backs against the wall to watch both the videogame and the door, the three of them just sort of go about their hanging out around us. So he and I just sit, not talking or doing anything, just observing how teenagers here live. Oliver is absent-mindedly _thumb, pinky, ring, ring, middle, index_,_ index_ing away on the floor between us.

Enid glances up at us after a long while. She'd walked across the room once to get another comic, that was it, other than that she's just been sat on the bed reading, so it's easy to spot her head movement because she's sat almost directly in front of us. She stares with a relaxed face and big blue-yellow eyes. I swear her freckles are swirling across her face, and I swear the whole world slows down and that gravity stops working because all of my hair stands on end. Is it her doing that? Is she stopping time and deleting gravity with her mind? She has to be. She's almost Oliver-scale unworldly. She's got super powers. If someone told me she was an alien, I think I'd believe them.

She's got something to tell us.

"You two seem. . ."

Oliver and I stare at her, thinking: _What? What, what, what do we seem?_ Ron and Mikey have glanced around, too, out of curiosity.

". . .Incredibly gay."

Everything catches up with itself at brutal force because the whole of time and space comes down on mine and Oliver's heads immediately, and we are crushed and blown to pieces. Only we don't move a muscle. Ron and Mikey look horrified, and possibly like they might laugh, I'm not sure. Oliver and I stare at them all, fight or flight kicking in.

I say, "The hell?"

Either Enid is secretly deaf or she is ignoring me again. It's not like Oliver and I are sat close. No shoulders pressed or hands tangled. No kissing or touching or whispering erotic fantasies into one another's ears. We're just _here_, sat down next to each other, watching videogames and doors.

"Jesus, _Enid_!" Ron yells. She looks at him, confused. He scoffs and laughs out, "Dude, you can't just say that to people."

"She didn't mean that the wrong way," Mikey tells us.

"Totally not," Ron, too.

Oliver almost laughs. Thing is Enid really _had _said it like it was the first thing that floated out of her head. No malice or cruelness or spite. If anything, she looks embarrassed right now.

"Sorry," Ron apologises, running his fingers through his hair again. "Enid's never been the best at talking to people."

"Us either," I admit, figuring that we can at least relate on that note. Still, when Enid glances at me, I get the feeling that she would rather choke on a walker's collarbone than relate to me. I shut my mouth and look away.

Mikey's looking at Oliver, then me. . .

"Does he? I mean, will he ever? Uh, can he actually talk?"

Apparently Oliver not talking means that he either doesn't understand English at all or that he might be inept. But Oliver isn't a child, nor is he mentally challenged, so I don't even try to answer for him.

Oliver nods and manages a quiet, succinct, "I can," to him. Mikey grins in approval.

"Good to hear you, man," Ron says. Oliver smiles.

"Wanna play?" Mikey offers. Oliver nods, taking the controller from him while Mikey takes his seat beside me.

We really weren't sat that close.

**Oliver's POV**

Despite Ron insisting that this race was his forte, he falls off of the track as much as I do. I don't get nearly as frustrated as him though. Truthfully, I'm not as into the game as him either, so, when I hear a door opening downstairs, I look around at Carl, who can see the hallway better than me.

"Hey!"

"Who's that?" It amazes even me that I am who asks.

"Nell," Ron tells us, still looking at the game and rolling his head back without looking away to shout. "Up here!"

"I'm going to make a drink, want one?!" Nell's voice is clear and articulate and local, like mine. Some odd switch in my brain turns on, like I'm getting plugged in.

"Isn't Mom home?"

"She just left."

"Oh, guys?"

"No."

"I'm good."

"We're good! Have whatever. Juice's in the fridge!" Ron answers down. He taps my arm with his controller and I jump. "Hey, focus, dude. You're dying."

I turn back to the game, because I'd just driven off of the stupid rainbow track again, though I remain distracted.

"I'm letting him off the leash!" Nell says.

"'Kay!"

Then there is bounding up the staircase, an excited bark, then the creature bounds across Ron's bedroom. In one clean leap he's through the door and on the bed, licking Enid's face. She actually smiles. It's mostly white with a few brown and black spotty patches along its back and tail and belly and legs, and two patches covering either side of its face.

"This's Nell's dog."

_Why is this so weird? _I think. _Why do I feel like I'm missing something?_

It notices Carl first. Carl looks at the others, and they don't give him any indication not to greet himself, so he holds his arm out and lets the dog sniff his hand. The dog doesn't bound over to him excitedly like I'd have expected, but is careful and weary, all of a sudden. At this angle I manage to see the missing left eye; now just a sewn and healed scar. When he blinks the eye socket still twitches. I'm about to ask what happened, but then the dog notices me and the screech it lets out is so loud that I flinch.

Given how collected the dog was before, I most definitely am not expecting it as a sudden, forty-pound, furry, mass of Border Collie canine collides with my chest. He knocks me backwards hard enough I'm sent barrelling into the videogame console. The controller flies across the room out of my grip. In an attempt to dodge the animal, I leap back, and everything on the cabinet falls on top of us; cables and consoles and controllers and videogames and DVDs. The TV would have killed me if Ron hadn't lunged forward and caught it. Scott Pilgrim smacks me in the nose and then a paw collides with my groin. I let out a grunt while the dog wriggles in my arms and attacks me with its tongue, clinging to my torso with a vengeance.

It terrifies me, and so, naturally, I try to brake its neck.

"No, wait!"

"Oliver, stop!"

"Get off!"

The dog yelps, trapped in my death grip. My arm is snakes around its neck and body and my other hand is positioned under its jaw. I saw a girl do this once to a bird she'd shot. I just have to jerk up really really hard. But then I see the blue. The blue blue eye. Because he only has the one. So blue it glows. So blue I'd recognise it anywhere.

"Bean?"

He barks, or tries to. The noise is strangled somewhat until I let go. He immediately mauls my face with his tongue and I erupt into laughter, wrestling him into a tight embrace as he wriggles ecstatically in my hug. Jesus. He's whining and whimpering and crying. I've never heard a dog cry of happy.

"Bean the Beast!" I shout, only just hearing Ron and Mikey half laughing and half _Whatthefuck!_ing to my left. "Bean, you fucking _beast_!"

That's when Carl throws him across the bedroom.

"No!" I gasp. "Carl, stop!"

Carl gapes at me for a second and then Bean is growling, standing in between us. Because I'm the boy that he still recognises. I'm the boy who he has known since he was a puppy.

"Bean-hush," I command. He listens. Hackles up. Teeth sheathing like knives. Slowly, I stand up, stepping forward and rubbing him in the chest. I'm grinning. Bean's pressing all of himself against my knees like he's trying to climb through my bones. "Oh, boy, I missed you."

"Oliver?" Carl looks close to collapsing in hysteria. I'm about to explain, but that is when I realise. . .

"Where's. . ."

"Guys, what the hell?"

I stop mid-sentence because I'm hit in the face with a memory-brick traveling at warp-speed because I'm just a boy with a hole through his head now. No. Holy fucking shit. This is not real. This isn't possible. I'm going to fucking fall through the floor, sink down into _things-that-definitely-never-happen-in-real-life-ever. _But I can hear footsteps. Someone. In the hallway. Edging to the door.

Then, emerging like a timid bird, or a ghost, come back from the dead to peek around the door frame like she's expecting us to pull a prank on her. It's funny how you don't realise you're not prepared for something you've never experienced before until it's already happened. Like your first kiss or your first time getting kicked in the balls or the plot twist in a book you're reading. Because then I am looking at her and she is looking at me and the stars align and then blow apart into the new Big Bang.

"Holy shit," she barely whispers. "You."

_Yes, _I think,_ me, because it's you, too. I know you. I know your tall, boyish, slenderness and fair freckle-littered skin. I know your moles, more than I can count, more than every human alive can count. I know your emerald eyes, like a field layered in frost. I know your soft, square, jawline. I know your small nose._

Every feature.

I know it, I know this, I know _her_.

To the day I die.

She's my best friend.

The last time I saw her, her face and body were younger. Now her age is shown in her face and her hips and her chest and her hands. Age in her eyes, too, somehow; old in mind rather than years. Her hair was once fiery ginger and as long as her spine, is now short. Shorter than short. Hardly feminine at all if it weren't for the gentle, elegant way she carries herself. I'm mesmerised. Stunned to death.

"Penelope?"

Penelope.

As in, Penelope Rostenkowski.

Penelope _fucking_ Rostenkowski.

A glass of juice drops from her hand and hits the carpet with a splash and a thud. The drink spills over shoes and wall and she stumbles backward a step, then catches herself. Her chin is shaking and she looks as though she's about to black out.

She's wearing a faded burgundy coat with faux in the hood, a buttoned grey-blue striped flannel shirt under it, some faded black jeans, and a pair of dark brown hiking boots.

" Ollie? "

I can feel everyone's eyes on us. Even Bean doesn't move a muscle. I do. I nod and nod and nod except I'm actually taking three large steps across the room and she falls into me. We hold on to each other, and I'm crying my eyes out. She can't even breathe. But she doesn't let go.

"Hey," she gasps.

We tighten our grip. Her hands close through the saggy tangle of hair flopping over the back of my neck, under my beanie. I lift her from the floor, bursting, and even when I ground her again we aren't letting go for anything yet. Finally, we do part. I'm crying and whimpering like an idiot, wiping my eyes and nose on my sleeve. Penelope watches me like she's forgotten what people look like. I get self-conscious and try to collect myself again.

"Is Drippy here, too? Your mom? Tate?"

I stop because she's shaking her head. . .

"It's just me."

I almost say, "Me, too," but I catch myself, realising it's not true. Not really. I can't how my chin shakes. I cup her cheeks in my hands. She's smiling, but it's sad. Grief contorts my own expression. Drippy was so young and their mom was so kind and Tate used to do this thing with his shoulders and it was awesome.

I kiss the top of her head and she startles and laughs.

"You're alive," I say. "You're here."

Her short ginger hair sticks to her forehead at odd angles. She's sweating more than crying.

"You had a hair cut?" I croak, tugging a few locks gently.

"Figured it was more systematic."

"Systematic," I repeat, awed. "That extensive vocabulary."

Penelope grimaces her laugh, and then she is hugging me again, and I hug her back, crying and laughing and scared I'm about to wake up.

"Um... so... you two know each other, I'm guessing?"

Penelope and I pull away from each other.

"Kinda," she laughs.

"Erm... how, exactly?" Mikey asks.

"Holy _shit_..." Ron suddenly blurts. "It's him. It's totally Ollie, isn't it?"

"Ollie from home?" Mikey seconds. They both look at me like I'd just crapped out gold. Penelope's laughing at me. I feel like a walking hurricane so I wipe my face and sniff a few times. Mikey says, "Oh my God. Ollie from home!"

Lost, I just open and close my mouth, trying not to look at the window like I want to leap out of it.

"Oliver?"

Carl's voice reminds me I exist, and when I look around at him I become aware of the discomfort that it speeding through my stomach.

"Oliver? Oliver – oh, crap."

He knows what's going on before I do, because then he's grabbed me and I start retching in the same second he's dragged me into the en-suit bathroom. My legs barely keep up. I clamber to the toilet and grip the sides and rush to lift the lid, and then I yack. . .

"_Huurrrk_!"

Carl is rubbing my shoulder, holding my forehead up for me because I'd collapse without him. I'm totally full from breakfast and apple pie so I throw up for so long I'm scared I've lost an appendix. Then there is another hand on my back, lighter and I know it's Penelope. I yack more, my mind reeling. Finally, I'm just dry heaving, hanging over the toilet seat like a dying slug.

Carl grabs toilet paper and wipes my face when I can't do it myself. I'm seeing Penelope watching me with all her big words and short red hair and I'm laughing hysterically. This is ridiculous. Jesus Christ, this is totally crazy. Carl is speaking but I'm still laughing and crying and incoherent. He taps my cheeks, yells something like, "Man, hey, look at me," so I do. Then I'm being pulled away from the toilet, all vomity and gross and feeling like I'm dying, and I hear a flush as I'm propped up against the shower glass.

Worried muttering surrounds me.

"Is he okay?"

"Does he _look_ okay?"

"He looks like Norman Bates' long lost brother."

"_Jesus, _Ron, shut up."

"I was kidding."

"What do we do?"

Penelope blanches, then kneels down and touches my cheeks and says my name. I smile at her, and start crying again. She tells me, "Mikey's gone to get your parents, okay?"

I laugh, "What?"

Carl makes a noise but I don't know what it means.

"My parents are totally dead," I'm saying, laughing. "Penelope, I left them in their freaking _bedroom_." I'm crying hysterically now, doubling forward into Carl's front when he pulls me into him. I can't tell if I'm laughing or crying now. "I left them both. Can you believe it?"

"I'm sorry," she says. "I thought..."

"Oliver, come on, stop now. Calm down," Carl says so I listen to him and cry into my hands quietly. The acid in my mouth hurts me from the inside out.

"I'll go find my mom," Ron tells us quietly.

"Thanks," Carl says. Ron leaves, and then it's just us. Penelope, me, and Carl, in that order with our backs to the shower and wall and Bean sat directly opposite us.

"What the fuck is happening?"

They laugh at me, a sympathetic type of laugh that just makes me want to wince. Because Penelope is here, and Carl is here. My two best friends in the entire world. That just doesn't happen. If it does, then I don't know how the fuck I'm supposed to deal with it. I know. I won't. I'll close my eyes, and it'll all go away. But I can't do that either because I don't want them to go. Not again.

Then, at the same time, almost comically, Carl takes my right hand and Penelope takes my left hand, and I'm just sat, against a shower wall, holding a little piece of them both in each palm.

"What the fuck is happening?"

Neither of them laugh this time, because my voice shook and my eyebrows arched, and they watch me fight another pathetic sob as I try to bring another sentence to my lips. I glance at her, but not her face.

"Um... I'm sorry for almost breaking Bean's neck."

On cue, he wanders over and takes a seat in front of my crossed legs, lifting a leg when she asks him to. She places the pad of Bean's paw on my knee. I touch it, as if I'm testing he's really there. Bean tilts his head and touches my hand back, pawing the back of it, and I hear him say, "Yes, Oliver. Yes, I am," even though he doesn't really say it.

The last time I saw Bean he was a scrawny six-month-old puppy with the hand eye coordination of a deaf bat. But now he's filled out, matured fully, more or less, at two years old. Sure, he's missing an eye, but he's Bean.

"I think he forgives you," Penelope tells me haggardly, then glances at Carl. "He might need a while to warm up to you though."

"Sorry," he mumbles, "for, you know, tryina kill your dog too."

Penelope breathes a chuckle, sounding shell shocked by all of this too. But doing well to keep it together. Even before she was good at that. "Just, try to refrain from doing it again. Please?"

_Refrain,_ I think. _That Extensive Penelope vocabulary._

"He won't bite, will he?" Carl asks.

"Not unless I tell him to."

Carl almost shivers, but she'd said it factually and gently and with a small chuckle, not in any menacing or intimidating way, so he reaches forward.

"I'm Carl."

"Nell."

They shake between me and I try to blink a few times before my head explodes.

"Or, you know, Penelope. Most people just call me Nell though."

She's always just been Penelope to me. I don't see that changing any time soon.

"I couldn't find my mom but I thought I'd get you water, Oliver," Ron announces as he walks into the bathroom again, handing it to me before taking a seat across from us outside the room on a bean bag.

I take a few long swigs.

The only noise I can hear now is Enid turning the pages of her comic in the bedroom. She still hasn't moved. Carl is very quiet, taking all of this in. Ron has no idea what's happening. Penelope is just trying to cope with it all, so, like any person. . .

I start laughing.

Laughing so much I sound like I'm crying, which, I guess I am really. Penelope starts giggling, too, and then Carl, believe it or not, and then Ron is just laughing at the three of us more because he's slightly terrified. But soon my laughs really do turn to hiccups, and then I really am crying again, at the same time as laughing.

Bean reaches forward, his wet, spotted nose touching just under my eyelid, flicking his tongue across my tears, and then I'm hugging him, the Collie practically stumbling into my arms as I tighten my grip.

The front door crashes open downstairs.

"Boys?"

Bean clambers out of my arms and growls. Penelope catches him before he rushes out of the room, whispering into his ear something that settles him immediately.

"We're up here," Carl calls out, not laughing anymore.

Rick rushes up the staircase, and I quickly do my best to wipe my face, watching the man swing around the door frame into the bathroom.

"Hi, Mr. Grimes. Nice to m—"

"What happened?" Rick growls, stunning Ron to silence with an invisible Taser that sends Ron inwardly reeling. I can see Mikey poking his wide eyed gaze around the corner, too, completely terrified. Bean growls again, but is polite enough not to show too much tooth.

"We're okay, Dad."

"Ollie isn't feeling very well," Penelope explains nervously.

"I'm sorry?" Rick blinks, not even realising that she's talking about me. He blinks again when he does. "Who are you?"

"I'm Nell. Uh, Nell Rostenkowski."

"Rick," he introduces, then rubs the back of his neck, stressed. "Boys, what's goin' on?"

My eyebrows arch. "Can I..." I have to force it out of me. "Can I leave? I... I wanna go, now."

Rick stares at me in concern.

"Please." I mentally kick myself in the gut for how stupid I must sound.

"You alright, Oliver?"

I force my smile, "Yep."

"C'mon," Rick gestures me over, taking my shoulder and helping me to my feet. "Carl, let's go."

We leave the bathroom and Ron's room.

"Ollie. . ."

My breath hitches. I turn to her.

". . .I've missed you."

She tells me like she's not sure what I'll think of her for it. I think she's spectacular. I think she's a miracle. I think she's beautiful and that I would hug her until I passed out if I had the energy, but my body is too shocked, barely managing to even walk, so I just nod and say. . .

"I missed you, too."

* * *

**Notes**

Okay, agh, okay! I love love loved writing how insecure Ron and the kids made the boys. I haven't really written that before. Carl especially had always been pretty much at the top of the food chain when it comes to the other kids around him, and so he's never really felt particularly challenged or inferior, so Ron especially is going to make a huge impact on his confidence, good and bad, I think.

Anyway.

So, I'd like to tell you that I totally planned this right from the beginning. Buuut, *nervous laugh* no. In truth, it's just a case of biasly wanting her in the story. Having Penelope here is sort of opening a load more options to do with Oliver's story instead of just having him wander around with Carl everywhere. As much as he most likely enjoys that, buut, ugh, it'd be boring because Carl only has like, three more scenes in the show left.

I thought it was funny how Oliver couldn't figure out if he was supposed to look at Penelope first or Carl, so in the end he just hugged Bean. Haha.

Coping... Oliver De Luca style.

Also, don't worry. I haven't made Enid homophobic. I have a plan (as you might have started to notice) that I'm actually kind of super excited to share with you guys.

Hope you like Nell!

As always,  
Happy reading :_)_


	10. Remember, Part 4: You Were Just You

**AGGXX5 **Ahh! Thank you! Haha, yep, aliiiive! Eeep! Thanks, beautiful, I'll try!

**Enderguest **Haha, you should just write this with me, swear to God. You could be my beta haha I agree, love triangles are soooo annoying. It's so rare to get one that is genuinely entertaining and intense enough to watch. I'm not sure I'll go down that route, exactly, but, I dunno, you'll have to read where this goes and I won't spoil xx And because I'm super bias and sentimental, all of the characters from Oliver's past will get tiny little cameo mentions xD just because it makes me feel better to know that at least I haven't forgotten about them, haha, oh dear, I'm ridiculous. xD THIS IS THE PROBLEM WITH WRITING, YOU GET SO STUPIDLY ATTACHED TO FIGMENTS OF YOUR OWN IMAGINATION! THEY BECOME FUCKING FAMILY! SWEAR! Also, about your last suggestion, I love the idea of it, but I'm not sure I'm up to writing any actual crossover/AU/blahblah Caliver stories myself. If anyone else does, then by all means, I'll make a community and bam, but right now, what I have here is all I can comprehend to write. (though, maybe, over the summer I might be starting one small AU of the boys a few years later if the Outbreak had never happened and Carl, Rick, Judith, and Lori had just happened to move to a small town near Alexandria... buuuut, that story isn't even in the fertilised stages of gestation yet, so, probably not) And I'm sooo glad you like Penelope!

**DarthGranola **Thank you! Ah, I'm so excited for you to read! I still kind of think no one is expecting it... x)

**BloodGutsandChocolatePudding **Haha, sending help, hold on! AHHH! That is so cool! I didn't even know what a brOTP meant! I googled it! xD I'm becoming aware that I do that a lot about fanfiction slang and terms xD Haha, I had to look up what 3TP meant to xD Haha, amazing. No spoilers, but, uh... I guess? Somewhere, that could happen too? But, I wouldn't count on it xD

**The Flash Fanatic **AHH! Hello! Nice to see you again xxx Thank you xxx

* * *

**Carl's POV**

I'd never asked Oliver what happened to Penelope. I had no reason to. Since the outbreak, if anyone was fond of someone and were no longer with them they were just gone. That's how it works. It's a rare thing to ever see it turn out like this. But, I mean, I have seen it happen before.

Me and Dad walk Oliver back to the first house.

Inside, Oliver spends a while sat at the kitchen island not saying a word. His hands are still, for once, but I can see his mind twisting inside out of itself. He hasn't taken a seat on the stool, but beside it, on the floor, his back to the island and his legs crossed. Dad is cooking food while the rest of us go about our afternoon. Oliver still hasn't moved, so Dad offers him a snack.

Oliver says something about his book.

I think of that morning at the suburb, and on cue, replicating my escape back then, Oliver gets up and retreats upstairs alone. All of us know there's not much we can do. Oliver is fairly calm now, at least, so we know he just needs some time to be very quiet, to think, to put it all in order in his way.

When Dad finally asks, I explain what happened to him and whoever is listening, and around an hour or so later, Dad has set out a plate for everyone. I head upstairs with one to finally find Oliver. He's in the kids' room. I only know this because when I open the door it bumps his foot. I peek around the frame and see him sat on the floor with his knees up to his chest. I think he's been here this whole time.

"Oh. Hey."

He doesn't say anything.

"Mind if I join you?"

He looks up and shakes his head, so I step past the door and shut it.

Inside the room are two single beds, one with a yellow throw and the other with a blue. It's well lit, with windows overlooking the community. The walls are white and decorated with posters, a few that must have been ripped down. Their torn edges are still stuck up. By one poster is a small, model, soda bottle-rocket, crayoned paper for fire. There's a desk opposite the beds between the windows, on it, a few books and a small, unused, home-made bird house. Like in Ron's room, and like in most bedrooms here, this one has an en-suite.

I set the plate on the yellow bed closest to the door, then gently take Oliver's hands and pull him to stand. With a small tug, we hug. I whisper, "Heavy day," into the crook of his neck and he sighs and nods and puts some weight into me. I hold into him until he has enough strength, and then I pull away and walk him over to the blue bed. He sits, then lies. Horizontal so the pillow is beside him, his feet a few centimetres off the carpet. Once I grab the plate I walk around the bed and sit beside him the other way around.

"Dad made us something to eat."

I place the plate on his chest, and Oliver's hand lifts to prod. He grimaces.

"It feels like I just stuck my finger in a rat's ass."

"No," I snort, "it's just mash, you freak."

Oliver sucks it off of his thumb-knuckle.

"And, I really hope you've never stuck your finger in a rat's ass."

"I haven't."

I glance down at him, the vacancy in his voice setting a pull of worry through my chest. I'm playing with his hair before I realise it. He doesn't mind. In fact, his shuts his eyes. I trail down, running thumb around chin, tracing his under-bite.

Back at the prison, I remember sometimes if I looked at Oliver's face for too long, I would want to reach up and nudge his jaw back a little. I knew it wouldn't have worked, obviously. It was just something I thought of doing a lot. But that was before, back when I didn't realise that I felt more than just frustration at him, back when I didn't realise that the urge to reach out and touch him wasn't so I could change him. Because I didn't want to push his jaw back or pull his hair to stop it from being so floppy and wavy and brown. Not at all. I've always liked his hair and his jaw. I've always liked everything. I wanted to touch him just to touch him. I wanted to touch him for so long that my hands moulded to the shape of his face and got stuck there, like that type of fish he once told me about; the males latch onto the females to copulate and when it's over he stays there and dies for her. I'd do that. I'd latch onto him and copulate and die die die. Or maybe I wouldn't have to die and we'd just keep on copulating. . .

I get carried away thinking about copulation too much so I put my hands in my pockets and ask, "How's your stomach?" Oliver shrugs, swallowing the thought of vomit away. I could hear him brushing his teeth while I was talking with Dad. I ask, "Do you think you can eat? Might help."

Slowly, he sits up. Our hips and right shoulders press, and I push back a little so that we can share, presenting two forks. He takes one, scoops, then takes half a bite. I eat, too.

"You okay?" I ask through a mouthful, eyes up but face down. I get weird about people seeing into my mouth sometimes. I swallow, look up properly, and add, "Like _okay_ okay?"

Oliver nods, then stops, waits a moment, then shakes his head. He's smiling. I get the urge to grab the sky and hand it over to him.

We eat a little more.

"Well, I like her. Seems nice," I say encouragingly. "Not so much her dog though."

Oliver takes a deep breath. I think it was supposed to be a laugh.

"You'll talk to her more; it'll feel less crazy."

"Yeah."

I've finished my half and Oliver is struggling with his. I know I'm hungry, even though there's plenty of food here in Alexandria, like I'm trying to catch up on all the meals I missed, and so I can imagine he's just as hungry. Still, vomit isn't a very good temptation. Oliver notices me looking at his half and pushes some over to me.

"No," I say, meaning it.

Eventually, he finishes. I put the plate on the bedside table and lie back, Oliver mimics me, lying back too so that we are both led parallel to each other, heads level to knees. I touch his palm with my finger and his hand twitches, just like it did in his coma, just like it always does, even now.

I love that.

Though, I'd never tell him about it.

"You know," I begin quietly, "for a second, while Penelope walked across to you, I thought she was gonna hit you."

"Like with Pat."

"Yeah," I admit after a pause.

"I think the worst Penelope's ever done to me is... flicked my nose," Oliver explains. "She wouldn't hurt a fly."

"Everything that's happened. It can change a person."

There is a pause. We use it to stare at the ceiling.

"I liked the others, too," I say. "They were cool."

Oliver replies succinctly. . . "Yeah."

"Enid was..." I don't have the word, so I ask, "Oliver?"

He looks at me, like he knows what I want to say. I think about how quickly Oliver pulled his hand out of mine. Maybe Oliver thinks of it, too, because he says, "It was stupid."

_Do they think we're wrong, too? _I ask him in my head. _Do they think we're unnatural?_

Oliver is watching me.

I swallow, ask, "Are we?"

"No," he says, taking me off guard. "No, I meant Enid was, for saying it. Not that she meant anything by it or anything, but, she just put us on the spot. She didn't need to do that. It was just dumb."

"They have no idea what it's like out there," is what I say. "They're..."

"Domestic," Oliver finishes for me. We aren't saying this out of spite or to make ourselves feel better. It's the truth, and we're worried about it. He goes on, "naïve, weak."

I let a, "Yeah," pass my lips, and I'm thinking about what Gabriel told me day before last. But Oliver doesn't need to know about that. Not after everything today. Not ever. There's a knock at the door.

Dad says, "Hey," as he walks in. I make a mental note that in future we'll only get a knock as warning before his entry. Still, I guess it's better than just the broken sticks and rustling leaves under-foot he'd give us as warning before, like a few weeks ago on the road, in a woods, nearby where we'd all set up camp for the night, I was busy playing inside Oliver's underwear and I almost didn't even hear Dad coming to find us.

It was a very close call.

Anyway. . .

"How was Ron's house?" Dad asks us. Of everything I told him before, we actually missed this subject. Still, I don't really know how to answer. Oliver either, by his silence.

"What do you think of this place?" I ask instead. Dad walks around the other bed and takes a seat on this one beside me. I don't sit up, neither does Oliver. I didn't realise how tiring talking to people and playing videogames and reuniting with old friends is.

"Well, I think it seems... nice," Dad allows.

"Yeah," I agree softly, then pick up my voice. "I like it here. I like the people. But, they're weak. And, I don't want us to get weak, too."

With a nod and a, "Hmm," Dad looks away from us. He waits a moment, collecting his thoughts. "I'm glad you're makin' friends." —he reaches across me and pats Oliver's knee— "Glad you're finding them, too."

The gap is comfortable and quiet and makes me think of picking green-beans in the prison vegetable garden.

"You look good with a shave, Dad."

He grins, the corners of his eyes wrinkling. The blue in them stands out more drastically without the layer of dirt and hair that had been there before.

"I'll teach you to shave soon, if you both want?"

I smile gratefully, even though I've not got much to shave anyway. I have a feeling Dad's offered purely because he can, so I say, "That'd be cool."

"Not me," Oliver says. "I've spent the last fifteen years growing my peach fuzz, I'm planning on letting it grow out so I can braid it."

I can't even tell if he's kidding.

Dad laughs just as someone knocks on the front door downstairs. We all glance towards the noise, listening.

"Hello," we hear Sasha as she opens the door.

"Hi."

Oliver tenses immediately, sitting bolt upright, me sitting up just a little slower than him. We all recognise the girl at the door.

"Can I help you?" Sasha asks, not doing very well to not sound threatening.

"Is Ollie here?"

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, um. Oliver. Sorry. Um. Is he, uh?"

"He's upstairs…"

"Oh, Nell."

"Nell, I'm Sasha. This is Michonne, that's Gabriel, Noah, Daryl and Tara."

"Hi," Penelope says, and they murmur or speak greetings back to her. Sasha leads her upstairs. Oliver's heartbeat jostles the bed. My own mimics him, quickening in my chest. A knock. Sasha pokes her head into the room. Her smile is tense. She steps inside. She always wears Bob's jacket now, rolled up at the sleeves since she ripped one on accident.

"Your friend's here," she tells us.

Penelope emerges through the door, almost exactly like before, only, a lot more emotionally collected this time. Her hand raises to wave, but then drops when she gets self-conscious. She's hugging herself slightly, hands gripped tight to her burgundy coat, thumbing at the collar. Dad stands up.

"We'll be downstairs," he tells us while he and Sasha leave, closing the door. Penelope nervously brushes short ginger strands of hair behind her ears; a habit, because it doesn't do anything. She looks at the door, then the window, looking like she wants to jump out of it. When her eyes flicker to me and Oliver, she smiles uncomfortably.

"Hi," she says.

Oliver blinks.

Does.

Not.

Speak.

I kick my side of the bed to remind him to.

"I won't yack again," he blurts out, startling.

Penelope nods like this was the greeting she was expecting. Maybe it was. Her eyes are on the floor.

"I should probably leave—"

"No, no," Penelope says, a wan smile on her face. She looks a little frantic, really. "Stay, Carl. I... I'd like to hang out here with both of you? If you want. Um... do you? Want to? Carl?"

I nod. Penelope sighs with relief.

"Can I sit down?"

We both nod.

First, she sits on the yellow bed, fidgeting with her hands, and then she gets up and steps across the room and sits next to me. She's sat facing the door, like Oliver, whereas I'm facing the other way, twisting to speak to them. We all don't make eye contact.

"Uh, thanks for returning those comics. Enid told me," Penelope explains. She glances at him, then me, then looks away quickly, like she can quite handle looking at us both for too long. Oliver, too, attempts to make eye contact, manages to purse his lips, then looks away. It takes him a few seconds to speak. . .

"I didn't know you were here."

Penelope laughs at this. "No kidding."

"I mean, I didn't think you'd come here, to see us," he corrects himself.

"It's been a few hours," she replies. "I figured it'd be less hassle for you."

It's easy to see that she knows Oliver, or at the very least cares a lot about him.

"Sorry," he tells her, "I'm just..."

"It's okay." Penelope smiles at him empathetically, "Your best friend just came back from the dead."

"Yours, too."

Then, for the first time since Ron's, they meet eyes. Green locks on brown. Her eyes are puffy and bloodshot, which surprises me. I didn't see her cry, before. Not enough for puffy bloodshot eyes, at least.

"Where's Jelly Bean?" Oliver asks her.

"Home. Enid's looking after him."

"Wait who's Jelly Bean?"

Penelope smirks at me. "My dog. That's his name."

"Actually, his full name's Berry Blue Jelly Bean."

I scoff. Oliver chuckles. Penelope, too. "Yeah, uh. My little sister named him." She trails and me and Oliver definitely notice even though we don't say so. Penelope pushes it away, grins, and says, "It's the worst name in the world, I know. Just Bean suits him a lot more."

Suddenly, I watch questions explode through Oliver's brain: What happened to her family? Why does Bean only have one eye? How did she get here? But he doesn't ask any of it.

Penelope sighs and all I can see is Sophia; refusing to complain. She once told me that her dad hit her that morning, and that then he touched her. This made me upset, and I wanted to tell my mom but Sophia just said, "You can't tell, I don't want Mommy to be sadder. Promise you won't tell, Carly." She used to call me this. She never said it in front of other people though. It was our secret. . .

Me and Sophia had a lot of secrets.

Penelope turns around and lies back on the bed. A moment later, Oliver lies back, too, letting out a long breath, and then I'm just sat up like the awkward one in the middle so I lie back as well. When I look either side of me I see two Oliver-knee-caps on one side and two Penelope-knee-caps on the other.

Oliver sighs and his fingers twitching beside my cheek.

"I've gotta be honest," he says quietly, "this is really weirding me out."

Penelope smirks. "Yeah, me, too."

Oliver chuckles.

"So, you two are together?" she asks after a while, thumping her index finger on her sternum. "The others weren't sure. They're too awkward to ask themselves so they asked me to do it."

"Yeah," is all Oliver says.

I wonder, for a more troubled moment than I want to admit, what it is they'd said exactly about us. Again, my mind traces back to my conversation with Gabriel a few days ago.

"I don't think Enid likes us," I say before I realise it.

Penelope draws her lips into her mouth as not to start laughing. "You'll have to ask her."

I look back at the ceiling.

"Look," Penelope tries. "She's not like that. She doesn't like people in general. You're the majority, I swear. She seems mean and rude but the truth is she spends so much time thinking and not talking that on the rare occasion she _does_ let something slip, most of the time, she doesn't even realise it. But she's a friend. She will be, once she realises you both are more than just two 'incredible gays'."

"I think the phrasing was actually 'incredib_ly_ gay'," Oliver chuckles, "with a _'ly'_, rather than just an _'e'_ at—_ouch._" I've thumped him in the thigh.

Penelope shrugs, "Same thing if you ask me."

I have to admit; this does make me feel better. Oliver, too, by the giggle he lets out. Penelope sighs. I prop myself up on my elbows to get a better look at her. She's beautiful, really, but not in a way that's obvious unless you really look at her, and she is not beautiful in a way that a girl would usually be beautiful. Her short hair is messy and mostly unkempt, and her clothes, I realise, are all boys' clothes; layered and comfortable and covering, but obviously vacant in a few places that guys would usually fill out like the shoulders and crotch, and slightly tighter in the places that girls usually would fill out, like her thighs and her chest (which really was only a brief glance). She kind of seems like both boy and girl, or maybe neither, gender ambiguous. She's like a wallflower, both wall and flower, blending in.

Then she looks down at me and I'm caught red handed and startling all over the place. I look away, cringing inside. She thinks I'm weird. She doesn't like me either. Why is it so hard to get people to like you? Why is it so hard not to be weird?

"How did you come out of the closet?" she asks Oliver. He looks down at her, shrugging.

"I didn't really. I think the closet just, kind of, fell apart around us both."

"That's funny," she says quietly.

"Did you know?"

"No," she answers. "Not really. Not at all, actually. I never really thought about it, you know?"

"Oh," he says, like this is news to him. She's frowning, thumbing at her flannel shirt; a habit like brushing her hair behind her ear, I realise.

"You were just You, Ollie."

Soon, they're talking like they've never spent a day apart, making jokes and laughing like they're made of the same air, almost. Neither of them talk about how they got here or what they've been through. They act as if none of it ever happened. I stay with them even though I'm quiet. I don't know Penelope at all, apart from what I've been told. But I'm not worried about being the third wheel. It's sort of fascinating, watching them talk. I think I know everything about Oliver but he surprises me every day. He tilts his head while he talks to her. Penelope, too, is fascinating. She's got an interesting way of speaking. Every sentence she says is clear and has a point. Like she's thought about what she's said carefully before saying it.

* * *

It's getting dark when Penelope decides to head home. Oliver hugs her. I don't hug her but I do bump her fist and walk her downstairs with Oliver. We file through the bustle of our group, some of them like Tara and Carol passing exchanges at her as we go. Outside, Penelope gives us one last wave and steps down the porch, making quite a large circle around Daryl, who looks up to her from his crossbow when he notices. He loses interest when she avoids looking at him. Back inside, Oliver shuts the door quietly. He turns, flattens his back to it, closes his eyes, and lets out a long breath.

"Hey, you okay?" I ask him dubiously.

Then he grins. . .

"Yeah. Yeah, I am."

We decide to sit on the staircase. 101's staircase is a little odd. It turns around on itself. Splits half way up. But in the part it splits, there's a flat square area. That's where we are; his back towards the wall, feet propped up on the first step that would lead to the second floor. I've pushed myself behind him, my back against the wall next to him, facing the banister with my feet propped against it. My chest and his shoulder mould like wax, making a sort of weird _'T'_ shape.

"Boys," Dad's voice comes from the living room. Oliver and I shuffle and stretch to see him. "We're sleepin' in here tonight again, okay?"

I realise he thinks Oliver and I are planning to sleep in a bedroom.

"We're just on the stairs, Dad."

"Okay," Dad nods, stroking the top of Judith's head when she turns to look at me. I wave to her. Dad's watching me, like he wants to say something, like he's worried. But he makes no inclination that he is ready to share. In fact, he turns away. I shuffle back again to speak privately with Oliver. . .

"Dad's acting weird," I whisper. Not too quiet. Everyone else is talking enough to drown out our voices. Oliver is looking at me. "I don't know why," I shrug, resting Oliver's book on my knee. I balance it there, occasionally having to poke at a corner to stop it from toppling off. "Think he's worried about us."

"He's always worried about us."

"Yeah," I admit, then inhale. "This is a weird worried though."

"Weird worried?"

I give him a glare and push his shoulder.

"Do you think it's because he thinks we're gonna... you know—"

"No," I reply. "I mean, it's more than that, I think. It's like he's worried we're gonna get too dependent."

"On this place?"

_On each other. . ._

Lying, I nod.

Oliver watches me like he knows. "Well, he doesn't need to," he whispers anyway. He plays with my hand. "After what you said to him. He knows we won't."

I get the feeling he's not just talking about Alexandria.

Upstairs, Sasha poke her head out of a bedroom and crosses the landing into another. She comes out a few minutes later to retreat into the bedroom she was in first. Since Tyreese, Sasha walks around like she's looking for something. Only, most of the time it's like something is looking for her.

"Can you read to me again?"

I glance at him. He tips his head, bumping my chest. A fold of hair tickles my nose. I wipe it back so I don't sneeze, exposing his forehead. It's bigger than you'd think. His forehead is like his eyes, bigger when you really look at it. It blasts me like a wave and I shield myself by touching my chin to it.

"Where're you up to?" I ask.

"Last chapter," Oliver answers, neatening his hair.

"Huckleberry Finn, or Tom Sawyer?" I ask, as this book is both novels in one.

"Huck. Finished Tom already."

I flip through pages.

"Folded it over," Oliver points out.

"Yeah. You folded over a lot of pages."

"I didn't do it."

"Oh."

"Found it like that. Hey, don't unfold them," he says when I try. I grin and fall in love with him for _every_ reason.

"I think I got it."

While I read, I'm a little rusty, which is embarrassing, but Oliver is patient, telling me that I'm not nearly as bad as I think I am. It's just with the gap of not reading anything aloud in so long time I struggle to get the words out of my head. After a little while it gets easier. It helps that Oliver is breathing slowly and softly and resting all of himself against me. I even get into character, putting on a thicker Southern accent for Huck, or making my voice deeper and dryer for Jim. When I move my chin to talk, sometimes it bumps into the back of his head.

I read the very last paragraph. . .

_"Tom's most well now, and got his bullet around his neck on a watch-guard for a watch, and is always seeing what time it is, and so there ain't nothing more to write about, and I am rotten glad of it, because if I'd a knowed what a trouble it was to make a book I wouldn't a tackled it, and ain't a-going to no more. But I reckon I got to light out for the Territory ahead of the rest, because Aunt Sally she's going to adopt me and civilize me, and I can't stand it. I been there before."_

I close the book.

Oliver sighs.

"How long did it take to finish?" I ask.

Oliver smirks and takes a long deep breath. "Since before you caught us at Story Time that day."

"Feels like a hundred years ago."

Oliver and I lose ourselves thinking about everything that's changed since then. When the nostalgia trip passes, I say. . .

"You know, I'm kinda disappointed in Huck."

Oliver looks at me, curious.

"Well, it turned out good for him," I review. "I mean, he got adopted by Aunt Sally in the end, everything else turned out okay, he got a new chance, you know? But he still doesn't want to fit in."

Oliver is quiet for a moment before sharing his thoughts. . .

"Kind of like us."

I furrow my eyebrows, ask, "How's that?"

"We're all sleeping in the same room," Oliver explains.

"We're trying."

"Most of us are."

"Daryl will come around eventually," I say. He's still out on the porch, furiously picking at his crossbow and neatening his bolts, smoking what has to be his tenth Morley today. He's like my old cat. When we moved house when I was a baby, Mom told me she tried to move her cat with us, but it turned into an out-doors cat and never came in anymore, then they hardly saw it anymore so when I was a toddler Mom and Dad got a dog, Jenny.

"Do you think I will —am?"

Oliver's question takes me off guard.

He notices.

"It's just," Oliver explains, tense, all of a sudden. He sighs. His sighs are starting to worry me. "Nothing, I guess. It's just, weird, being here."

"You're getting there. We'll bounce back."

"Right," Oliver gives a fraction of a nod. "Bounce back."

* * *

**Notes**

I really do think Enid literally meant _Incredibly _gay. Like, _Incredible. _With an E at the end :) Because they are incredible. Duh. xD

Okay, I'm starting off slow with Penelope. This will be the only chapter for a while that focusses on mostly just her. I feel like I need to trickle her into the story, if it's too much it'll become tedious, if it's not enough, you'll forget she's even there, so, yeah, shit, I'm trying. But this was a big dose, and next will be on to going back into the boys and the other characters :) hope it's going alright.

**Preview: The group are starting to adjust to their new lives, and the boys are left at home to care for Judy. But when an opportunity to leave the compound arises, the rebellious prospect is just too inciting to pass up.**

As always,  
Happy reading :_)_


	11. Remember, Part 5: Vaffanculo

**DarthGranola **Thanks!

**The Flash Fanatic **Yeah, I'm building all of that up to a climax. Rick is worrying, but why won't be told for a little while, and I'm super excited! xD And thank you about Nell. I'm so glad people are enjoying her so far!

**Rolo-chan **Haha, understood. Hope your sis didn't mind xD I'm actually really glad you're worried about Carl and Enid. And I love your predictions, keep 'em coming, and yeah, it totally could happen. But, with everything I have, I'm kinda trying to make this story (the boy's part of it at least) as unpredictable as I can :D Writing off of the show, it's kinda impossible to make up my own stuff, so twisting the parts I can without it becoming tedious or infuriating is a fun challenge. Ah, yeah, God, I love your reviews. I'm glad that you're a little _iffy_ with Penelope right now. It'll be my challenge to get you to warm up to her. Like, why on earth should you like her just because I threw her into the story? :) I'm glad you're keeping an open mind though x Haha, yeah, I do have a funny little bit about the nick name soon x) I didn't forget x

* * *

**"The Lime Tree" by Trevor Hall**

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

Someone put an extra blanket over us in the night. Rick, probably. He hasn't been sleeping well. I have. I haven't had one nightmare since getting here. Maybe Alexandria keeps them away from me. This morning I only wake up so early because Abraham's snoring becomes earth-shaking, and apparently I am the only person on earth who can't sleep through it. Well, me and Daryl. But Daryl wakes up before the sun every day anyway. I go out onto the porch when he glances at me through the window, catching me pacing around the island.

We don't speak.

For a few minutes I just stand beside him while he smokes. I think we are both uncomfortable here, but in a weird way, like the way I see birds fly off rooves but I'm pretty sure I'd fall to my death if I tried it. This morning is chilly, makes me hug myself and bring up my shoulders. It'll likely warm up later. Daryl offers me his cigarette, looking like he doesn't really know how else to interact with me, and I chuckle and shake my head and give him a friendly salute while I go back inside.

Judith is awake so I sit with her at the kitchen island and prepare her formula.

Soon, Carol wakes up.

She smiles at me mid-yawn, then comes over. She pulls over a stool and sits across from me on the island, resting her head on her hand. Her cheek is smushed. She looks at us tiredly, raising her eyebrows and yawning again.

"Morning."

"Morning."

"You spendin' time with your friends today?"

"Later, maybe," I answer, and then I think of yesterday and I'm excited, all of a sudden: "You know Penelope helps out with school for the little kids."

"That's nice of her."

"Yeah," I agree. "Kinda like you with Story Time, and helping out the old and needy."

Carol smiles and sits up properly.

"What's that all about anyway?" I ask curiously.

"What?"

"You know, playing helpless housewife," I answer. I adjust my arm so Judith doesn't suck air. "Hiding your full potential. Playing possum."

"I'm kinda excited to get started actually."

I'm aware of how she avoided answering.

"What? I am."

"You know what you're doing," I relent. "I trust you."

"Good." Carol smiles, standing up to rake her fingers through my hair. At first I resist with a grunt. But she tells me to sit still, so I do. "I don't think I've met someone with so many cow licks," she tells me. I can almost hear the stubborn locks pinging back to their positions. "I'll cut it for you. Make it a little more manageable."

"Good luck."

She gives up.

"Have you taken a shower yet?" she asks.

"Had one the day we got here."

"Oliver, that was two days ago."

My eyes shift to the side, confused. "So?"

"So, you need to shower."

I hadn't really thought anymore about showering. I didn't really think I needed to yet. There's no blood or dirt or grime over me, and I change my shirt and underwear every day, so it just didn't seem urgent, especially considering we all wore the same clothes for weeks on the road. But I suppose, being here, I'm expected to shower every day now.

_Did I even do that before? _  
**_I think so. But, to be honest, I can't even remember._**

"I need to get in the shower before work," Carol tells me, still slightly disgruntled. "Shower when the rest of us are gone. I think you and Carl have got the house to yourself for most of the day. Take care of Judith, hang out with your friends. Don't just stay here all the time, okay?"

I nod, though, I don't promise anything. I'm thinking about how much I enjoyed my first shower, and I'm thinking about how me and Carl are going to be here alone, and I'm thinking about how much more I'll enjoy showers if he can shower with me. . .

Carol gives me an expectant look and I grumble at her to fake my exasperation.

She goes and showers, and soon, slowly, the others wake up. We make breakfast and start our day. When Carol comes out of the shower, Michonne goes up. I don't mean to burst out laughing when I see the Peletier as she comes into the living room. She holds her chin up proudly, showing off her new attire: a bright blue cardigan, a pale blouse, some high-waisted khaki pants, and the kind of shoes that old people wear.

"If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say it at all."

"No, you look great, Carol," I beam. "Very... domestic."

"Perfect."

I almost cringe, and Carol lets out a giggle. I've never heard Carol _giggle_.

"You leaving now?" I ask.

She nods, then points a finger at me. "Shower today. Okay? You and Carl need to." _Oh, we will._ "And, get into the habit of using deodorant every day, too."

I curl my lip.

"I mean it. You need to stay clean, Oliver."

Laughing, my eyebrows lift as I scoop another mouthful of dry cereal. Quite frankly I stopped caring about excessive hygiene right around the time Patrick tried the sink tap at home and blood came out of it after a rat died in our tank.

"I'm serious."

"Daryl hasn't showered at all," I grumble through my mouthful.

"He hasn't?" she asks, frowning at the man through the door.

I shrug, swallowing.

"Wash," she warns. "Today."

"Promise, ma'am," I assure her, cocking my eyebrows.

"And don't talk with your mouth full."

**_This woman is fucking incredible._**

She is outside and shutting the door but I still hear her and Daryl's conversation:

"Time to punch the clock and make the casseroles."

"What?"

"Making dinner for the older people. Moms who need a break. People who can't cook... Get to meet a lot of the neighbours that way."

Daryl snorts.

"Have you taken a shower yet?"

"Mhmm."

"Take a shower, I'm gonna wash that vest, we need to keep up appearances, even you."

"Yeah, I ain't startin' now."

"You're setting a bad example for the kids."

Another snort.

"I'm gonna hose y'all down in your _sleep_!"

She knows I'm listening.

"You look ridiculous!" Daryl retorts.

Inside, I'm laughing into my bowl and Carl asks, "What're you smiling about?"

"Caryl," I joke.

* * *

Carol's at work. Rosita's at the clinic. Eugene, the solar panels talking to some other smart dude. Maggie's at Deanna's house. Noah, Glenn and Tara are on a small run with Deanna's son, Aiden, and Mikey's father, Nicholas. Abraham's outside the wall doing construction, and Gabriel is in his church. Rick and Michonne are out together. I haven't seen Sasha but I know she's not in the house. Same with Daryl. Judith is, but she's asleep downstairs.

Carl and me?

We are in the shower.

Solitary shower-jerks are one thing, but _team_ shower-jerks are a whole new level of awesome. I think I must die a million times this morning. The water burns me but it's him him him and I don't ever get enough, and then I die a million _and one_ times —him too— and we finally decide to get out of the shower because we run out of hot water.

"I still cannot get used to your dad's shave," I tell Carl inside the bedroom. The same one we were in yesterday. "This morning I almost pulled my knife out when I saw him come in the backdoor."

Carl chuckles while he pulls on a grey and orange flannel over his shirt. "He looks the same way he did when he found me and Mom." He tosses me a clean set of clothes. I unravel the underwear, folded dark jeans, and blue long sleeve top.

"No flannel?"

"There's a hoodie?"

I nod, catching the black fabric as he throws it over. "Oh, deodorant, too. Carol said we should get into the habit of using it every day."

"Stuff is cold."

I laugh, spraying some on and wincing, trying again, wincing less and hoping I'd done it right because what the hell is all of that white stuff?!

"I should try to find a matching pair of shoes," Carl says while I rub at my armpits, grimacing as deodorant smears over my hands. I'm trying not to freak out about it. "Deanna mentioned it."

"No, I like them," I complain, pulling on my clothes. Carl is staring. I snicker. "Eyes front, soldier."

He looks up to my eyes and takes a seat in front of me on the bed nearest the door. "My eyes _are_ front now."

I laugh, step away, and hold up the hoodie. It might be a size too big for me. "Got anything smaller?" I ask as I pull it over my head, trying it out, but I stop when I feel a pair of hands suddenly rest on my waist. My arms are stuck up with my hoodie half on and half off, stretched over my shoulders and the back of my neck and covering my face. He climbs inside. . .

"Oliver."

I grin madly, both of us stood in the space of one item of clothing. "What?"

"That's the only size."

"I'll manage."

We're kissing inside of the hoodie. Then there is a knock at the bedroom door. Carl grunts a laugh as I try to de-tangle myself and my hoodie from him, moving in odd angles that are making it worse more than anything.

"We're just getting dressed!"

"I can see that."

Rick's voice.

It replied from right behind us.

Suddenly, Carl drops, escaping his ensnarement. I rush awkwardly and frantically to put the hoodie on properly, and we both spin around to face his father.

"Jesus, Dad!"

"I'm goin' out to look around," Rick tells us, Judith on his hip. I'm hoping beyond hope that he hasn't been here for very long. Carl ignores his red cheeks.

"Outside the wall?"

Rick nods, pushing Judith into her brother's arms. "I'll be back in a little while. Won't be long."

I try to flatten some cow licks but they grow.

"Can you both do some chores. Wash dishes. Laundry. Clean up around here. Don't just sit around all day reading, or—"

"Dad."

"Hang out at Ron's house. Spend time with your friends," Rick tells us, ignoring mine and Carl's embarrassment. "You could go to school with them, maybe. But make sure someone's here for Judith."

Carl and I nod. Rick, too, resting his hand on Judith's head and telling us to come downstairs.

"You gonna check your gun out?" Carl asks his father as he steps onto the front porch.

"Yeah. I'll take the python. See you in a little while."

* * *

**Carl's POV**

Oliver and I decide to spend the rest of the morning doing chores or sitting on the porch rocking chair (apparently you can fit two boys and a baby in one). While we do this, we talk about Alexandria. How it's like a doll house. How still it is here: "Mom always wanted us to live in a place like this." We joke about school and how much we won't go, and then we talk about Penelope.

"You don't call her Nell," Oliver says.

"Oh." Honestly, I only just notice. "Guess not."

We're doing laundry. Well, I am. Oliver was in the utility room helping me but it made him uncomfortable (he doesn't like utility rooms since the suburb) so now he's with Judith in the kitchen not thinking about it, wiping down counters with his free hand.

"You talked about her so much, before," I go on. "Guess she's just always been Penelope to me, too."

Oliver is smiling even though I can't see him from here.

"Seriously, about what Dad said," I say. "Going to school. You really don't want to?"

Oliver says nothing.

"Won't be like Story Time."

"Nothing'll ever be like Story Time."

"Dork."

I finish unloading and loading the washing machine and take the laundry outside (there's a line between the first and second house back porch banisters). Oliver sets Judith on the grass and helps me hang up the clothes, and when that's done, we all go out front and sit on the rocking chair again, all three of us; Judith on Oliver's chest, Oliver on mine, mine in the chair's. We're settled and smushed and comfortable.

"I really do like it here," I say.

Oliver had started reading his book, August, and he keeps reading for a moment until he presses his thumb over the line he's on. . .

"Can't stay in one place for too long."

It's the same thing I told Gabriel that day in the Church. Hearing Oliver say it suddenly makes me feel naive and childish.

"Sorry," he says, "I'm not trying to patronise you. I'm just, trying not to forget."

"I know," I agree, frowning. "But, I... I think, I think Alexandria can be safe – _will_ be safe. Or, at least, safe enough to settle. For a while."

Oliver doesn't say anything, so I keep talking.

"I think we can let things calm down. Here. So that maybe it doesn't have to just be about staying alive to see the next day, you know? 'Cause, maybe it could be about doing the dishes and helping with the laundry and walking Bean, and, picking up Judy from nursery, as well."

Oliver sighs, some heaviness clouding over him that I can't quite decipher.

"Maybe we'll settle enough to really just be, for once."

Oliver turns his head at that, looking at me without looking, but I know he's listening.

"Maybe it wouldn't have to be so intense all the time," I continue. "So, desperate and terrifying. Maybe we wouldn't always be afraid of losing each other as much as we always are. And, we wouldn't lose each other, because, you know, we'd be in the same house, in the same community. Safe. We could _calm_. We could be normal. Together."

"I like the intense parts though," Oliver says after a pause, mumbling like he's not sure he should, or like he's being sarcastic, almost, like he doesn't really want to talk about this at all but doesn't want to offend me. "It's when all the kissing happens."

I blush, thinking of the shower. When he first proposed it I got so excited I almost blacked out just at the thought of it. I say, "We'd still get intense and stuff. It would just be when we want it. And sometimes when we're not even expecting it, and when it does get intense, it really _really_ will. But only when we want it to be, and it'll be easy to come down from, and that's gonna be good, that's gonna be _grounding_, and... And we'll be happy."

Oliver and I tangle ourselves in thoughts of future here. We get carried away with it, dangerously, foolishly, but willingly. Until it is Oliver who pulls himself out of it first, gritting his teeth. . .

"We can't stay in one place for too long."

I sigh, reluctantly emerging from my vorfreude. . .

"Okay, Oliver."

A pause.

"Hey."

He looks at me.

"In your interview, what did you and Deanna talk about?"

"Oh, um." He turns back, and I put my chin on the top of his head. "Quite a lot really. Where I lived before. How long I'd been on the road. How long I'd been with everyone. How Pat died. My parents. Why we're afraid."

"Did you tell her?"

Oliver nods. "But not everything. I don't think I needed to."

"Oh?"

"She said she was exceptionally good at reading people."

"Yeah, she was. And, she kind of has a lot of smiles."

"It's kind of amazing, huh?"

I concur with a kiss on the back of his head.

"She asked about the people I've killed," Oliver says.

The first was the man's skull he crushed under his sneaker. The second man was the Termite, who Oliver shot through the forehead. I sometimes think Oliver was the first victim, really. When I told him this once, he said I was, too, but I don't believe that.

"What did she talk to you about?" he asks.

"Pretty much the same thing," I answer. "Talked about Mom – told her I killed her."

Oliver lets me tangle my fingers between his. Judith hums quietly, switching cheek to rest on him so that she's facing the house now. Oliver wraps his hands around her. It's cool out. But not cold enough to be uncomfortable. Plus, we have warm clothes.

"Judith's asleep," I whisper, peeking over Oliver's shoulder while he runs a thumb down her nose. "I'm really glad you picked up on that trick."

"Me, too."

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

We're doing that thing Rick told us not to do; sitting around the house, reading, doing nothing instead of going to school. I've also got my hand down the front of Carl's pants. No, not doing _that. _I was just cold and pockets are overrated and Carl's groin is far warmer. In truth, I didn't even notice until a few minutes ago.

Whatever, Carl doesn't mind.

"Where are you going?" Carl asks. I've gotten up from the couch. While I was reading (and half-heartedly pant-occupying) he's been fiddling with an hour glass paperweight he found on the TV stand. He sets it on the coffee table in front of him, and I glance back at him, pausing half way up the staircase.

"I gotta pee."

"Right, uh... I didn't need to ask that."

I laugh and go. It's while I'm washing my hands for the fourth time that I hear Carl whisper my name from downstairs. I dry off my hands and head down. I dance into the living room, twirling around the pillar.

"Man, do you _know_ how much I fucking _love_ flushing toilets?!"

Carl stares at me from the window.

"Basically..." I stretch my arms out, emphasizing the distance between the very ends of my fingertips. "_This_ much. And _then_ some."

"Oliver."

He's beckoning me over desperately, looking out the window, and I only just drop my arms, managing a confused, "What is it?" before he suddenly pushes himself away from the window sill and rushes to the front door.

"Come with me," he says, "now."

"What? Why?"

"Have you got your inhaler?" he almost interrupts, rushing back to me and reaching out in his excited urgency. He glances at my knife, still around my waist (the only time I've taken it off is going to Ron's) and touching it with his fingers as if to make sure it's really there.

I just stare at him. "Why? Wh—"

Before I finish he grabs his hat, then my hand, and drags me out of the front door. I barely have enough time to throw my book on the rocking chair before we're off the porch and flying around the end of the cul-de-sac. I stop at the curb and watch Carl jog over to the rusty steel-beam wall, grabbing hold of something on it that I'm not close enough to see. Then he looks over his shoulder, frowning when he realises that I am not with him yet.

"Oliver, come on."

Sceptically, I meet him. "What're you doing?"

He covers my mouth, listening to something that I can't hear. I see what he'd grabbed hold of now; a thin wooden pole wedged into the support beam. There are more further up. I yank his hand away, glare. He ignores me.

"Come on, tell me if anybody comes."

"Did you put those here?" I ask. He's already pulling himself up and climbing. "W-wait," I stare at him, "we're sneaking out?"

"Enid went this way, she left the poles."

I frown, starting to climb, too. "Why would she just leave?" He doesn't answer, instead he reaches the top and disappears over the other side. "Carl?"

"Watch it as you get to the top," he says. "Enid took the towel with her, so it's sharp."

Soon we're both outside the community and we're rushing into the forest.

"Carl, wait. Think about this for a second," I try.

"Come on," he whispers.

_This is a bad idea. We're gonna get ourselves killed.  
**It's exciting, Oliver.  
**I think I'm well past the line of wanting any more excitement in my life. I'm ready to retire. I'm ready to get handed my pension on a silver platter of pudding and grapes, thank you very much.**  
An adventure!  
**I'm fucking done with adventures!_

I'm losing my battle against my conscience.

"Enid?" I ask, fighting anyway. "We're following her?"

Carl takes off running, yanking me to come with a grunt.

A few minutes later, I spot a shape moving in the distance through the trees. It's her, strolling through the brush ahead. I dodge behind a tree, pulling Carl to stop before she hears us. He sees her when I point, staring like he's never seen a girl before. I'm totally confused, and possibly slightly jealous but I ignore that as best I can because it makes my throat sting.

"C'mon," he whispers when she's far enough away, and like a sheep, I do.

I'm doing my best to remember the way back when Enid stops suddenly. I dart behind a tree. Carl, too, with the tree in front of me. He's making too much noise and glancing at me nervously-excitedly and I flatten my back against the trunk to hide myself.

_This is stupid. This is so stupid. We're gonna get busted.  
**Calm down, cry baby.  
**__How does this look? Two teenage boys following a lonely girl into the woods? Yeah, because that's not cause for concern at all! It's the kind of stuff you hear on those cheesy talk shows, the kind of stuff that ends up with someone's missing face on milk cartons._

Carl peers around the tree at her, narrowing his eyes curiously. I watch him do this and the sting in my throat becomes an ache. Then I hear her break into a run, and look, seeing a flash of faded purple-grey sleeve and long brown hair before she disappears. Carl rushes past me, knife in hand. But she's long gone.

I linger by the tree, Lizzie's knife hanging loosely in my right hand and using it to jab at the bark. Carl stops in the place we last saw her and sighs, sheathing his knife. He looks back at me, disappointed. I purse my lips, sheathing my own knife. I want to get my book and lose myself in it. I pull at my beanie, only I'd left it at the house. Makes me uneasy.

"Sorry," Carl apologises.

"Whatever," I shrug, voice trailing more and more until it's barely audible. "It's fine. Guess it's normal. You're... curious."

His head darts to look up at me, a murmured, sudden, "What?" passing his lips. I shrug again, forcing my smile which feels more like a wince, _is_ a wince. My breath turns to ice. . .

"You know, you're—she's, you now."

Carl tilts his head, frowning.

I try again: "Well, she's. . ."

mysterious,  
rebellious,  
pretty. . .

. . . a girl.

"You know."

Carl looks lost.

I realise he has no idea what I'm talking about at all.

**_Oliver, you complete, utter moron._**

"Sorry." I wince at him. "I'm... I—"

It was stupid of me. Really stupid. Of course his curiosity towards Enid isn't anything more than just simple curiosity. He frowns when he catches on.

"God, I'm such an idiot."

"Yeah," Carl agrees, looking annoyed at me. "Yeah, you are."

I cringe. Carl watches me, sighing as he takes a few steps closer. I realise he is smirking a little.

"You know?" he begins, taking my hands. "You took that worryingly well."

"I think I saw her," I tell him, changing topic. "The day we got here. She was outside the wall, in one of the burned houses."

"That's what you were looking at?"

I nod and Carl nods, too, putting the pieces together.

"You were looking at her kinda funny at Ron's."

Again, I nod, this time a little defensive. "It weirded me out. Guess I'd forgot to bring it up after Penelope showed up."

"I wanna talk to her," he says determinedly. "Enid."

"Okay," I say, rubbing my mouth. "But don't you think it'd be, uh, less intimidating, if you talked to her in a place where she's not afraid of being torn apart or, you know, followed?"

Carl twists his lips to one side, nodding as he realises the mistake he'd made first off.

"Creep," I comment.

"Shut up."

I try not to laugh, and instead, curiously, I ask, "Why do you need to talk to her so much anyway?"

Carl squints at a tree, says to it, "It's just, after what she said." I go to say something, but Carl keeps talking. "I know she didn't mean anything by it. She was just saying. I just wanna get it from her." He sighs, irritated. "Look, it's obvious that she hates us, Oliver. I just wanna know why. I mean, she won't even talk to us. And, I don't... I don't think that's fair."

"It's not our problem if she doesn't like us."

Carl doesn't speak.

"I've been called a lot worse before."

"You have?"

I nod.

"Like what?" he asks.

"It doesn't matter, man."

I frown. "But you don't even seem to care?"

"I cared for years," I explain. "But now, I dunno, I guess I'm done getting upset because someone doesn't like me for me. For us. If that's the case, then I don't need them in my life anyway." Carl looks like this makes him feel better but he's still gritting his teeth and not looking at me. So I ask, "Why do you care so much about what she thinks of you?"

"It's what she thinks of you, too."

"Okay, then why do you care what she thinks of _us_?" I insist, but Carl refuses to answer, so I press, actually getting a little irritated. "Because, this all doesn't seem to be just as simple as wanting her to be your friend or wanting her to like you."

"Because it's not just her!" Carl argues, irritated too. He kicks the ground and sends dirt flying. "It's... it's not just her."

"What is this about then?"

Carl doesn't answer.

"Look, I can't help you unless you talk to me, Carl."

Uncomfortably, he looks in the direction we came, wanting to go back. I drop to the ground, sitting like a stubborn child, or an old mule refusing to pull a carriage.

The way Carl glares at me would send a grown stranger running.

"Oliver."

I smile.

Glaring intensifies.

So does the smiling.

"What are you doing?"

"Sitting down."

"Well stand up."

"I'm not leaving."

"Yes, you are."

"Nope. Not 'til you spill."

"Rhyming won't work."

That was an accident actually.

I cross my arms, looking expectantly at the empty space in front of me, waiting for him to come occupy it.

"Get up," he says.

I don't, just glance up at him. I pat the earth in front of me.

"Or you're walker bait."

The area around is clear, as far as I can see, and the trees are thin enough to see through for a good few hundred yards. With all the sticks and bush, we'd hear anything before we saw them or they saw us (unless they have ninja-level skills). Just to be sure, I take out my knife, sticking it into the ground beside my thigh.

"I can take them," I reply smoothly.

"Get up," he repeats.

"No."

"Oliver."

"_Nope_."

Carl actually bares his teeth.

Very calmly, I say, "Talk to me, Carl."

"I'll hide your book."

"We already finished it."

I'm squinting up at him as if it'll summon some kind of supernatural power to get him to do what I want, knowing full well that I'm annoying the shit out of him, but over the months of knowing him, I've learnt that it's kind of a really effective technique to get him to cave.

"Last night, remember?"

He narrows his eyes. "Then I'll hide your _other_ book."

"No you won't."

"And why won't I?"

"Because Ty gave it to me."

Carl almost growls, but turns it into a sigh.

"Sit, Carl," I say gently, knowing that I've cracked him, not proud that I'd used that card but knowing it was necessary. "Talk to me."

Relenting has never been Carl's strong suit, so he takes another few not-really-that-angry kicks at the ground before he finally slumps down in front of me, glaring. . .

"Vaffanculo, Oliver."

I almost laugh, covering my mouth with two fingers to stop myself. "Know what that means?"

"No," he answers, "but you said it to me once—figured this situation suits it just as well."

"No it doesn't," I argue, genuinely offended. "I was pulling a catheter out of my dickhole."

Carl narrows his eyes, laughing inwardly, I'm sure.

"Just so you know, _Vaffanculo_ means 'fuck you', or, you know, 'go fuck yourself'," I explain. "Whichever really."

"Pretty much the message I wanted to get across."

I snort, rolling my eyes. "Anyway... come on, what's this about?"

More narrowed eyes.

"It's not just Enid... so it's gotta be something else." I try to piece it together, working off how much his mouth twitches or his nose flares to tell if I'm getting warmer. "Something you read? No. Something you heard, from something, no... Someone. Oh, okay." It's not so much the question, just, the way I go about asking it. But then I realise his response and my expression drops. "Wait, someone said something to you about us?"

Carl squints, nods, and I see a dark sad cloud puff through his skin.

"Who?" I know he won't tell me so I take more guesses. "Was it Ron or Mikey?"

Carl shakes his head, meaning it. It wouldn't be Penelope. Not Rick or Carol, or anyone from our group, I wouldn't think, but. . .

"Oh."

The penny drops.

"Gabriel," I say. "It was Gabriel, wasn't it?"

One nod that is heavy enough he doesn't even lift his head again.

"What? When? What? Where? What did he say?"

Nothing.

"Please, Carl?"

He sighs, wincing. "Back at the barn, while we were waiting for the others to come back. He said that we were wrong. That we're supposed to make a family when we're older. That we were unnatural, being together. Being boyfriends. . . Being in love."

A sudden anger shoots me through the gut. I feel it. I have to bring my arms up and hug myself.

"I don't believe it," Carl tells me, his face long and hurting. Mine, too. "At all. And I told him that, I did."

I can feel my cheeks burn with betrayal, because I'm angry. So angry. Why would Gabriel say this, after everything? I thought he liked us. I thought we were friends. I get the urge to punch him in the face with his own bible but I push it down when I notice that Carl doesn't sound angry.

"You still wanna know if Enid thinks that, too," I don't ask.

Carl swallows, whispers, "I do. But I don't believe him. Oliver, I don't. Swear. I know that we're not wrong. And, sometimes... Sometimes I do feel... different. A lot more after getting here. But I know I wouldn't change us, Oliver."

My eyes are watering and I'm nodding, as much to agree as to push away the sting in my eyes. It didn't occur to me until now that, even after all this time, it still hurts when someone doesn't accept something about me that I can't change — that neither of us can. I try to ignore it. I know that I, too, wouldn't change us for anything.

Still, it does hurt, and I guess there's no getting out of that.

"Hey." Carl has shuffled closer, and his hand is pressed to my cheek. "Can't tell what you're thinking unless you say it aloud."

I smile miserably.

He touches my cheek.

"I didn't want to tell you because I knew it'd upset you like this. And I don't want you to worry about me either. Because nothing anyone can say to me will ever change the way I feel about you. We've been through too much shit to let that happen."

Holding his wrist gently in my hand, I press my cheek into his palm and whisper, "I know."

He smiles reassuringly, a little relieved too. "I just want to know if we can be friends with her. With all of them. I kinda wanna stay here, and to do that I think it'd be good to know who our friends are."

I nod, smirking now purely for how relieved I am. Ridiculously relieved.

"And like we said, they were cool," he says. "And I'd kinda like to have more than just one friend here apart from you. As much as I like your company."

I laugh, and then I kiss him quickly. I intend to pull away and stand up again but Carl kisses me a second time, and his hands are warm and gentle and around my neck. He grins into my lips, and I let him push me backwards so he can kneel over me and kiss me, and I mean like the sweet and juicy and giggly kind of kissing. I grow acutely aware of the gap between us. I don't want it there. I want it closed. I want it to stay closed forever.

_Close us close us close us close us..._

"Oliver."

It seems he was thinking the same thing, because just as my name passes his lips he collapses between my legs in that awesome awesome way that sends me spinning off all over the place. Leaves and twigs rustle-crack-snap under my back. It sticks in my clothes and hair.

"Close us, Carl."

He pulls up, suddenly, hoisting me up. It makes me gasp but I don't let go of him. My shoulders are bunching up and my knees hug his waist and I still decide he's not close enough, so I touch his hands, pull them down, under my shirt until I let go and hold around his neck. Then he, too, decides this isn't enough, because his hands come down to my jeans and he unbuttons them. I'm kissing him again, and when he starts mumbling I pull back to hear him. . .

"Can I?"

He knows he doesn't need to ask, and that I'd much rather he just went ahead, but consent is something that we both take very seriously. As a result of this, I'm nodding before he even asks. The moment he slips his hand into my clothes, I grab around his shoulders so tightly he can't move. I suddenly feel like I'm about to fall through him, through the Earth, through reality itself; unstable and dazed and overwhelmed like I'm about to get flung from existence and lost forever.

"I have you," he whispers. I'm digging my fingertips into his hair, and he whispers it again, "I have you."

I curse, and then there is a short scuffle between us. Carl keeps us steady.

"I have you, Oliver."

He does have me. He's holding me together. Keeping me from falling. Keeping me real and here and with him. Keeping me from being flung from existence. It's too much and not enough all at the same time and I cuss again, suddenly shoving him to his back so roughly he grunts and jostles and laughs. I didn't mean to do it so hard. His hat's fallen away and hair whips away from his face and his legs buckle under me, sending me lurching forward with a gasp. He laughs again. But I don't have any thought process for laughter, so I mumble, "Sorry, man," and crash our lips again.

Something ripples directly above us.

We're startled, twisting to look.

Just a bird.

It flies out of a tree and soars overhead, disappearing through the forest. For a brief moment I glance around to check nothing had scared it away, but then Carl pulls my jaw and we're kissing again.

_It only takes one second, _I think, even though I don't want to think at all. _One second. One second and it's over. _So _–shit–_ I remember where we are, what we're doing, how dangerous it is being so exposed and unfocused. I break our kiss, panting and mumbling to tell him to stop but it comes out a noise. Our exchange of eye contact is so intense it's almost scary. I have to clench my eyes and bare my teeth. My voice coming in rasps and pants and pleas. . .

"I want to."

Not even what I was going to tell him.

Don't even stop kissing him.

Hasn't stopped.

Have to. . .

. . .grab his wrist.

"Carl, we gotta stop."

Immediately, he does.

I remember how to function, slowly, re-opening my eyes to see him. His cheeks are crimson and his eyes are just two black holes, but coming to his senses, too, resting his hands either side of my waist to grip the hem of my hoodie. I have to lean over him for a moment, collecting my thoughts, panting and swallowing and regaining myself.

"Oliver?" Carl asks, cupping my cheek now. I look at him, my eyebrows arched, mouth hanging open, exhausted. He smiles and gently taps my right temple. "Everything okay up there?"

"Yeah," I laugh breathlessly, pressing my hand over his. He looks far too proud of himself. "You're an asshole. You're... fucking addictive."

He's laughing like he's trying not to.

"God dammit." I start laughing, too. "You asshole. . . I want to make love with you, too."

The staring doesn't stop after my statement for so long I almost dismount him, feeling self-conscious and foolish and wildly indignant like this. Despite what I'd said being true more times now than I can count, I've never actually said that to him. It's far easier to think than say, for both of us. He's still staring. Thinking. Not saying. I start to move but Carl's grip on my waist fastens, like a gear shifting on a motorbike. I watch him. He's inside of my head. But that's okay. He can be inside my head all he wants.

"Well," I mumble, "say something, man."

"Really?" he stutters.

Nodding, I laugh, pulling a twig out of his fringe. I whisper, "Really really."

"Not out here though."

"Sadly."

"Walker bait."

"I figured that, too."

"First house might still be empty, probably will be for a little wh—"

"Shit!"

We both say it at the same time.

He adds, "Judith!"

* * *

Our main focus has shifted from going back for Judith to very much just _going back_, because it has slowly dawned on us that this might be a lot more difficult than we'd first anticipated.

"We're lost, aren't we?"

"No. It's this way."

"Carl..."

"Hmm?"

"I think it's actually this way."

"What?" Carl blurts, distressed and trying not to be. "No it's not."

This is unknown territory to both of us. Woodland as dense looks the same in every direction.

"I knew we'd get fucking lost."

"We're not lost," he grumbles. "We just need to retrace out steps."

"Unless you're Daryl," I say sarcastically, "I don't see us doing very well."

"We're fine, Oliver."

I know this, of course. When I think about it I realise I'm not actually worried at all about finding our way back. Also, despite technically being lost, I don't feel stranded. Neither does Carl, by taking just one look at him. I think after so long out here it's sort of become normal not to know exactly where to go. Carl knows this too, so he holds his hand out to me and I step forward and take it. With my free hand, I use Lizzie's knife to mark a tree with a neat _'X'_ to make sure we don't pass it again.

"Come on," he says. "Let's try to be quiet."

"You can't be quiet. You're always so loud."

Carl narrows his eyes, then ignores me. "If we find a road, we'll be able to find our way back."

We keep walking. It's not a few minutes later that I hear something _clunk_ ahead. There's a shack. Carl and I were aimed to walk around it, so we stop at the wall, knives out, edging around it to see. . .

Rick.

There are growls a few hundred yards behind him. Only he's crouched down, looking into an empty blender. Beside him, where he must have gotten it, is a large mound of trash. Old chairs and tarps and cut down tree parts, like it was laid there for a fire. Rick grimaces at the blender.

_What's he doing with it? _I think to Carl. And he thinks back, _Maybe there was something inside it._

Rick stands, holsters his gun, then takes his knife instead. My machete is on his hip. He turns to the walkers but sees Carl and I walk around the junk-pile instead. For a moment, I think he'll reprimand us for sneaking out. Carl and I unlink our fingers, bracing. Rick turns away to the walkers.

Three of them.

Rick says, "Get ready."

_Oh yeah._

Rick takes the man on the right, Carl takes the woman on the left, and I take the dude in the middle. He's missing a hand. I kick him in the kneecap and when he's on the ground I sink my blade through his forehead. Just as swiftly, Carl and Rick are finished too. A fourth walker has joined the fight and Carl and I stand back while Rick holds it back, his hand to its throat, poising his knife.

A hand.

It shoots out from under a rotten old carpet and grabs his ankle. Rick blanches, distracted, and immediately me and Carl are running and at the same time three individual blades are driven into the walker's throat. When it hits the floor, it's head topples off like an action figure.

The walker makes an attempt to crawl out of its hiding spot but something inside sticks it. I watch it reach up and growl furiously. Rick grabs a steel pipe, but Carl stops him.

"Dad," he says, sheathing his knife and gesturing for the pipe. Rick hands it over. Our hands are dripping in walker blood. Carl squares up to the walker, then sends the jagged edge down through its skull.

* * *

We return to Alexandria only a few minutes later. Rick is furious at us but more because we left Judith alone rather than because we snuck out. Now we're walking along the wall, the gate up ahead. We hear the arguing before we see it. . .

Glenn: "You tied up walkers!"

"It killed our friend!" I don't know this voice but I think it's Aiden. "You obey my orders out there!"

"Back off, Aiden," Tara warns.

"C'mon, man. Take a step back," Noah, too.

"Aiden!" Deanna barks. "_What_ is going on?"

"This guy's got a problem with the way we do things," Aiden answers. "Why'd you let these people in?"

"Because we actually know what we're doin' out there."

_THWACK!_

We see the hit, but Glenn isn't the victim. Aiden collapses across the street with a grunt and Glenn lowers his fist, and then people are running and shouting and Rick is thrusting his supply bag into Carl's arms. We watch from a distance. Nicholas (I know it's him because he looks all Mikey except his hair, but he has his face) is sent to the floor, too, with a tackle from Daryl, who is also choking him now. Rick grabs his shoulders, coaxing desperately for Daryl to let go.

Someone shuts the gate behind us and Carl and I watch Maggie and Michonne join the argument. Aiden stands up and Michonne squares up to him. "You wanna wind up on your ass again?" He is quick to recoil like a snail.

Nicholas is gargling.

"Daryl," Rick groans again, and he suddenly releases him. The Alexandrian scrambles to his feet, the veins in his face bulging like he'll burst. Daryl prowls like a wild lion, Rick pacing along with him to make sure he doesn't attack again.

"I want everyone to hear me, okay?!" Deanna orders. "Rick and his people are part of this community now, in _all_ ways! As equals!"

There is a pause.

"Understood!"

She glares at her son, and Aiden shrugs cockily, "Understood."

"All of you, turn _in_ your weapons!" Deanna orders sternly. "And you two—" she points an accusing finger at Aiden and Nicholas. "—come talk to me."

They go away. So do most. Mr. and Mrs. Miller whisper something amongst themselves, and as well as giving Daryl and Aiden disapproving looks they give me and Carl a few, too. I realise we're holding hands again, but this time, we don't let go. They go away, too, and when I see Carl's heart hurt I squeeze his hand. He gives me a glum look, but smiles, and then his eyes are on something behind me.

Penelope is walking towards us, Bean close on her heel. For a second my legs almost give out under me, but my heart calms down and I recover almost as quickly. I'm about to wave. But it's only then that I realise she's not even walking towards us. Enid is stood only a few meters away. Carl hadn't noticed her either. Penelope touches her arm, her eyebrows knitted together, worried and irritated. Enid saw her coming and still doesn't look at her.

Penelope gets real close to her then, and Enid turns to listen to what she whispers. Whatever Penelope says, Enid says, "No," to, and Penelope looks like she's just been smacked.

"You're gonna get yourself—"

Penelope stops when she sees us watching, her cheeks fire. I look away. Carl, too.

"I'd like you to be our Constable," Deanna is telling Rick, then, to Michonne. . . "And you, too. Will you accept?"

Taken aback, Rick nods. "Okay."

Michonne, too, looks like she's been hit by a baseball bat. "Yeah, I'm in."

Daryl scoffs angrily, grabbing his crossbow from the floor and marching back to the house.

"Thank you," Deanna says to Glenn.

"For what?"

"For knocking him on his ass."

With a confused nod, Glenn walks away, and most of the others do, too. I look back to Enid and Penelope, only Penelope is gone. Enid sees me looking at her, sees Carl looking at her, too, and just stares.

Sad.

That's what Enid looks like right now.

And, I think, us too. . .

"You don't like us, do you?"

Uncomfortable, she pulls at her backpack and walks away frowning.

Carl dips his head, hurt, and then looks around at me disappointedly. I give him a, _Better luck next time look. _To be honest, he'd asked her rather more bluntly than I'd originally thought he would.

"Hey," I say softly, "she almost smiled."

It's true. She did. There was one tiny second.

Still, it means nothing to Carl's pride.

"Come on," he tells me. "Let's just go find Judith."

* * *

**Notes**

Yes. Oliver did call Carol and Daryl, Caryl. Like it or not, it happened - _lol joke update like a year later on season 6 and JesusxDaryl5eva! Daryl for Jesus is going to be cannon mark my fucking wooords!_

Thank you to the wonderful **Fredrick **for the beautiful song, *sigh* totally incredible! Also, thank you for giving me the inspiration for that little rhyme bit haha ← no, I can't put that! XD Jajaja, yeah? Yeah. xD

Tell me what you thought, I love hearing from you all! xxx

As always,  
Happy reading :_)_


	12. Remember, Part 6: Poker Face

**DarthGanola **Thank you xx your support is fucking gold!

**The Flash Fanatic **Aw, thank you! I'm glad you're enjoying it! Agh! Love you!

**Guest **Do you know what you've done?! Do you!? Because of you, that little idea floating around in my head about an AU has now made it to paper. Or, rather, PC. So, yeah, I've started writing it. _Thanks, grrr._ Haha, nah, thank you for liking them so much to want an AU. I'm going to write at least five chapters before I upload. So it won't be for a while. But it's fun so far, so, yeah. Thank you! XxX

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

Bean leaps.

His splash drenches the whole world.

Only it's actually just me, Penelope and Ron.

It's been a few hours since the whole thing with Glenn and Aiden. We ate lunch and Penelope and Ron came to the door to find us. Mikey's with his dad and Enid is. . . I don't know. Quite frankly I'm not really curious either. Now we're at the lake, sat in a line along the gazebo roof watching Bean search frantically for the stone Penelope had thrown for him. Bean is quite an impressive swimmer. He not only swims doggy-strokes but completely dunks under like a _fish!_

He's a blur of white and brown for at least ten seconds before he comes up with a mouthful of reeds.

He sets it all down on the ground ten feet below and sits when Penelope makes a hand movement, like sign language. A flat palm means 'wait'. Wiggly fingers: 'beg for it', and he does; using both front legs to paw at the air and the highest pitch of whine I've ever heard.

We laugh.

Ron, who is singing Bon Jovi at the top of his lungs and occasionally knocking into me or Penelope when he rocks side to side, picks a stone from the small pile we'd collected and throws it across the pond. Bean charges, then _flies. _His splash, again, is so large that it hits our legs. Ron's arms are up in cheer. I see a bruise. _Big _bruise. Black and blue and yellow. He sees me see. His arms drop, and he yells, "WOAH! WE'RE HALF WAY THERE! _WOAH!_ WE'RE LIVIN' ON A PRAYER!" and I laugh my ass off.

Mikey comes over, looking stressed.

I stop laughing.

"Hey, man," Ron says, "how'd it go? Heard about the daddy-choking."

_Oh, geeze._

"Not funny," Mikey says, meaning it. He avoids looking at me or Carl and climbs up quickly. He slumps on his belly along the roof and groans, "I hate my life," into the mossy wood. "Dad's driving me crazy."

Ron pets him on the head like he's Bean, then grabs his shoulder and pulls him to sit up. Penelope's not really paying him or us any attention, but rather scribbling away into her notebook. She licks her lips when she writes, moving her jaw side to side. Seeing this makes me dizzy with nostalgia, but it's not exactly the same. I don't know why, or if I should even be thinking about it so much. Maybe it's because she's older, or maybe it's because there's a lake, or that she's writing in a dark grey notebook instead of a green one, or heck, maybe it's just because her hair's short.

Regardless, she's lost in her world and she's not coming out anytime soon.

Carl, offering peace, gives Mikey an apple. He had it in his pocket after he picked it from the orchard earlier. Mikey takes the offer, agreeing peace gratefully (he seems hungry, which helps) and even shares it with everyone. We all get two bites each, and when it's just the core Mikey throws it into the lake and Bean scoops it from the water and eats the rest.

"Hey," Mikey says after a while, "did you get Clovarch to the Mage's lair yet? And have they found the captured explorers? And what about those weird gems in the silver pool?"

Penelope glances around at him, tumbling out of her imagination like she might really topple over. When she gets her bearings, she smiles.

"Don't worry. You can read soon."

"When?"

"You going home for food?"

"I'll stay out."

"Cool."

He shuffles forward, butt-scooting to sit directly beside her. Penelope pulls her notebook to her chest so that he can't see, frowning. I'm thinking of Tom Sawyer and Becky Thatcher and Mikey is Becky and Penelope is Tom. Mikey-Becky flops forward suddenly, bumping his forehead into Penelope-Tom's shoulder.

"Nell, can you read me your story?" he mewls.

She snorts, shoving him up. "Not yet, dude."

"You write fic," Carl says.

Penelope nods because she thought it was a question.

"Fanfiction, too," Mikey informs us, head against her shoulder again which Penelope doesn't seem to notice. I briefly wonder if they're boyfriend and girlfriend, like Ron and Enid. But then again I'm not even fully sure Ron and Enid are. So far, the most positive interaction I've seen in them all has been between Ron and Mikey. Mikey goes on: "My opinion? Even though Susan never wrote the end of The Hunger Games, Nell did it for her."

"Whatever," Penelope chuckles, shoving him to sit up again. She glances at me and Carl when she sees how amused we look. "Well, Mockingjay was gonna be published last year. But, you know, that never happened. So, I got desperate."

Closure was always one of Penelope's favourite things in books. That doesn't seem to have changed.

I try not to think about everything that has.

"She floored it," Mikey says. "Nell got Katnis to save Peeta and the others, then they overthrew the Capitol and made their own Hunger Games where the people from the Capitol had to tribute their own children —see how they liked it. Also, Katnis snuffed Peeta and Gale and just lived happily ever after with her mom and sister and Buttercup. I'd personally always been team Gale."

"Team Katnis," Penelope frowns. "She doesn't need anyone."

I never read that series so I have no idea what they're talking about. Mikey looks back to Penelope expectantly. . .

"I wanna know what happens next."

_What happens next._ That question had always been the dent in Penelope's armour, and by her annoyed eye-roll, that definitely hasn't changed.

She says, "Clovarch finds the explorers and the gems aren't really gems, that's all I'll tell you. Plus, I haven't figured out how they'll all escape yet. Maybe they just won't."

Mikey almost pouts. "Do you have a plan?"

"Nope." She grins, and four teenage boys turn into four teenage _breaths_. The soft, calm, content kind. Penelope's grins are like apple peace-offerings; enough for everyone. "I figure I don't need one," she goes on. "Clove will tell me what to do soon enough. For now, they're still deciding."

"Clovarch sounds very... meticulous," I say quietly. This, I realise, is the first time I've spoken since getting here.

"Oh, they are," Penelope says proudly.

"It's kind of annoying sometimes," Mikey says. "Sometimes Clove's so focussed on one thing that they totally miss another thing. And you're just there, yelling at the page, begging them to turn around and notice that troll about to steal all their supplies."

"Hey," Penelope blurts, "nobody's perfect."

I'd always loved that about Penelope and her writing. She spoke of the characters like they were all real, like all the stories of wizards and dragons and pixies weren't just in her imagination. All her characters had a mind of their own, and there was no way she could control them even though she had the freedom to do anything she wanted. All of her feelings and thoughts played out into her plots and dialogue and characters. Writing was like floating in the ocean for her. She didn't need to try or over think it, she just rode out the stories and characters like a wave, like riding a bike downhill.

"Okay," Mikey relents. "Finish the chapter and then I'll read it. I don't think I can bare another cliff-hanger like the last."

She smirks.

For a while now Bean has been sitting below us, patiently waiting for one of us to throw something. I reach across Ron and take a stone, then toss it onto the middle of the lake. I swear, Bean has _wings_.

"Guys!"

We all turn and see a boy running across the street. He's about eleven or twelve, with short strawberry-blonde hair and pale freckly skin. He's Ron's little brother, Sam. He came to the house earlier with him and Penelope but Ron asked him to go get his skateboard for him. It's under his arm. Under his other is a soccer ball.

"I got it!"

"Aw, thanks!" Ron says, only he's being sarcastic. Because of this, my insides are grinning. My outsides, too, I realise. Ron adds, "Want a freaking medal?"

Sam glares and Ron leaps down and grabs him into a headlock. He's gentle though, and Sam is laughing because he's being tickled.

"Just kidding," Ron growls into the top of his head. "Thanks, buddy."

I'm thinking of Patrick and getting that horrible _I miss my brother more than anything _feeling. I distract myself with throwing another stone for Bean.

"Guys?" Ron asks, grabbing the ball. "Game?"

Mikey and Carl get up.

"You two gonna stay?"

I nod. Penelope, too. She's busy writing and I'm busy ignoring brother-envy.

"Okay. Cool."

The four of them play soccer on the street between here and the front gate. The sun is up and the sky is blue and faces dance in the clouds. I see two people kissing, and then I see a lion leaping across the empire state building, and then a teddy bear holding a gun.

"Sky's even nicer now, huh?" she asks me.

I nod. We used to talk about this all the time. We used to sit in her treehouse and count clouds together for hours, and when it got dark, we would catch fireflies in jars and pretend they were pixies and sprinkle flower petals and tiny notes we wrote our wishes on over them, while we whispered, "I do believe in faries, I do, I do," over and over, (I didn't believe, but I still said it for her) and then we would send them all on their way again.

"You arrived with Enid, right?" I ask her.

Penelope nods, then says, quickly, "I realised the other day that the clouds and bushes in Super Mario Bros are the same shape, just coloured differently."

Her change of subject wasn't accidental, I know that.

"Also," she says when I say nothing, "I read that when a male bee ejaculates, he dies."

"I wish I could die like that," I say, and we both laugh and the air turns to fireworks and they fill me up and I burst with more laughter. Finally, the fireworks fizzle out, so I say, "Penelope?"

"Huh?" she says. I open my mouth, wanting to ask her everything. . . but she looks me in the eyes and I hear her in my head. She says, _Don't._

So I don't.

"Um," I say instead, "Did you know that pirates used to wear eye-patches so they could see in the dark?"

"Wow!" she grins.

I grin back. "I know."

And then, for a moment, we're just grinning at each other. If I look at her long enough it almost feels like it used to. Almost. Then, at the same time, our smiles fall, and we're just looking at each other.

"Ollie?"

"Yeah."

"Wanna go play soccer now?"

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, I do."

When we jump down, Penelope touches my hand to stop me walking away. She doesn't expect me to hug her but I do anyway. If this was two years ago she would hug me back and the hug would last for a whole minute and we would laugh and sigh and bury noses into each other's necks and mumble that we'd share the moon together one day, but now it makes her blanch, stumbling back. I let go, and after a second she smile tightly. . .

"I'm glad you're here, Ollie."

"You, too."

_So glad. So, so, so glad, Penelope._

"C'mon. Let's play."

* * *

Soccer is cool.

Me, Ron and Sam against Penelope, Mikey and Carl. Bean keeps stealing the ball, and on several occasions we spend several minutes chasing him around Alexandria to get it back. Carl is definitely enjoying himself. At one point he gets so into the game Ron is so out of his depth he has to dive out of the way when Carl rockets the ball at the goal we've made with a stone and his hat (which he still hasn't put on).

Bean gets the ball and Sam has to pretty much tackle him to the ground. It's funny, how gentle the dog is to that kid. If anybody else, bar Penelope, did that, Bean wouldn't hesitate to take out one of our testicles. By now the only people still playing are Sam and Penelope. Mikey's distracted himself with the skateboard Sam brought over. Carl, Ron and I are sitting on the sidewalk in that order.

"You guys know how to skate?" Mikey asks. He flips the board and Carl blinks, watching him land again and swivel around to face us. Carl shakes his head, impressed. Mikey asks, "Wanna try it?"

"Erm, I'm okay, thanks though."

"Oliver?" I realise this whole time I've been staring at the board, too. My soles are aching. "Know how?"

I nod. This is news to Carl, who looks at me with star-gazing eyebrows. Truth is I used to be really good at skateboarding. When I was ten my cousin taught me while I was in Italy for a Summer with my family. I broke my arm on that vacation.

Mikey steps off, tapping his foot against the end to get the board to flip up into his hand. He holds it out to me, says, "Go ahead."

I hesitate. It's been a while. Like, a really, really long while.

"Just try, man," Mikey insists.

I do. Carl, Ron, Mikey, Penelope, Sam and Bean are my audience and the pressure makes my hands clammy. Under my right foot, the board feels unsteady and alien, and then I remember that I'm regular instead of goofy so I switch feet, and it feels better. It rolls under me when I rock my leg. I take a quick glance up, feeling like an idiot.

"If I fall on my ass I blame you, man," I tell Mikey. Mikey laughs, more because I'd said that (said anything) than for how funny it was.

I concentrate, push off with my right leg, wobble, and then the whole thing flings off in the opposite direction I was going. It's like getting a carpet ripped out from under me. I clatter to the road and roll onto my back messily. . .

"Dammit."

Carl laughs first, and the others taking that as their go-ahead to start dying of funny, too. I'd put my middle finger up at them if Sam wasn't there. Instead I blush and pull my shirt down from where it'd flipped up my stomach.

"Try again," Ron calls out.

I do, again and again and again, gaining a new handful of bruises and scrapes. Finally, I begin to get the hang of it. The others have started another game of soccer. Carl comes over after a while. I don't see him until I skate right into him so we both hit the asphalt with a grunt. When I see the board escape across the street, I chase after it.

"Sorry, man," I mutter, coming back and helping him up. He brushes himself off. "What's up?"

"Did you talk to her yet?" he asks curiously. I shrug and glance across the street. Penelope looks up at me when she notices, waves, and I wave back nonchalantly. She runs after Ron and Mikey who are stealing her ball.

"I've been talking to her pretty much all day," I reply. Carl frowns. I mount the skateboard again. Before I move, Carl steps in the way.

"What's up?"

I sigh. "I tried, but she kinda avoided it."

Carl nods like he'd half expected this, then tells me, "Give her time, guess." I get the feeling he'd gone to play soccer before as much to give us time alone as much as just wanting to play.

"Guess," I say, glum.

"It's been a pretty big deal for you guys, being here, finding each other. I guess for now it's nice being able to just go back to how you were before." _Except it's not like that at all._ "Maybe, for now, ignoring it's just making it more bearable."

"I'm not ignoring anything," I say. Only I think I'm lying and it makes me mad. Carl notices, so I step off of the board, feeling too tall and not wanting to turn this into an argument. "Look, I'll talk to her. I just need to go at it by another angle."

"I'm not saying that," Carl says. "I just…"

He doesn't finish, so I ask, "What?"

"The way you speak together. The way you are together," he tries to explain. "I mean, yeah, you both knew each other for four years, but you both are so different now. And you know it but you _do_ ignore it. Like I said: A year and a half can change a person. She's not the same and neither are you. And that's okay."

I frown at him, wanting to argue that she can't have changed all that much because of the dent in her armour and her favourite thing still being closure and the big words and useless facts and The Hunger Games.

"Stop being so wise," I say instead. "It doesn't suit you."

Total lie. It suits him like flame suits wood.

"Just, don't stress over this," Carl says. "Everything works out the way it's supposed to." I'm nodding, ignoring the pain in my throat. Carl's about to reach out but instead I step back and point to the board with both hands. . .

"Right, come on. Hop on."

"What?"

"Come on, get on."

Carefully, Carl does. Quickly we realise that Carl is a goofy skateboarder, unlike me, a regular. He wobbles but at least he wobbles less. I grin, about to step backwards, but he blanches, grunting and flailing his arms so I grab his shoulders. He holds onto my biceps, catching his balance again.

"Settle, man," I laugh at him.

"It's hard."

"Here," I look down at his feet, tapping the outside of his left leg with the back of my hand. "Spread." When I look up at him again I'm met with a rather taken aback look on his face. He suddenly cracks up, his eyebrows sky rocketing into his fringe. "Just do it, dirt brain."

Finally, he's steady enough to stop wobbling.

"There, see?"

Carl holds his breath, nods. I think of that day in the music room a million years ago, keeping him steady.

"I'm gonna walk now," I tell him, "you gotta move with the board. Not me, the board, okay?"

"Okay."

Slowly, I walk sideways along with him. His hands shift on my biceps, loosening.

"I'm gonna let go now," I say. Again he nods and my arms slip and unwind from him. I keep walking. "Okay, speed up a little, left leg."

He does.

"Wait... uh, Oliver, how do I turn?"

"Lean. Lean, man!"

"What—_ahh_!"

"Here." I help him rebalance. "Push to the side of the board when you lean."

The board starts to curve. . . the wrong way. Carl staggers off before he falls.

"You'll get there," I tell him, catching the board before it hits the curb. Carl gives me a disgruntled nod, stepping on to the board again. "It's not rocket science, dork."

He laughs, and it's enough to knock him off on its own.

* * *

It's getting dark.

We're back at the lake; gazebo roof under us. We're having an extensive conversation about the best eighties movies. Ron's a little obsessed with the eighties.

"No, no, Back to the Future was awesome," he says. He's said this several times already.

"Dude," Mikey grimaces, "his mom gets a crush on him."

"Still a great story," Ron shrugs.

"Geeze," Penelope starts laughing, "could you imagine your own parent getting a crush on you? What a terrible predicament."

"Well, I don't know," Mikey says then, "I wouldn't mind if _Ron's_ mom—_ouch_!"

Ron punched him in directly in the kneecap and Mikey's whole leg spasms. I snort. Penelope lets out a laugh and Carl smirks. Sam just looks a little disturbed (he's also afraid of heights so he's not very happy about being up here, but Ron practically threw him, so he didn't get much choice).

Ron turns to Carl, "So, you and Oliver."

The colour drains from Carl's face immediately. Ron's wanted to bring this up for a while now. I could tell. Carl could, too. Hell, the tree could tell. Now though, he can't wait any longer. I think Carl's going to take off running but luckily he stays put.

"You don't really act, you know, gay."

Carl doesn't say anything so Ron glances at me, looking like he regrets this already (usually I am only spoken to as a last resort). I stutter, not sure what he wants me to say.

"How are we supposed to act?" Carl asks curiously.

"No, I mean," Ron fumbles. "I mean you guys just don't really act like a couple."

_I think the same thing about you and Enid, _I think.

"What do you want them to do?" Penelope laughs.

"We can make out if you want proof?" I meant to just think this, but I know I say it aloud because Mikey bursts out laughing. Ron thumps him hard. Carl is looking at me like he wants to know what I've taken, and I pull a face, because I have _no_ idea.

"Uh, no," Ron answers me. "You don't have to do that."

The irritable sarcastic in me almost thanks him, but I hold my tongue (mainly because it's refusing to work now).

"Wait," Sam says, grimacing, "what's gay again?"

Carl is squirming inside. I can see him ripping his hair out and rolling across the street and dissolving into the gutter. Me, too. I try to smile, scratching at the scar on my lip and pulling at my beanie.

"Like Aaron and Eric, Sam," Penelope explains. He looks up at her, then looks at Ron when he taps his arm.

Ron says, "Being gay's when dudes likes another dudes." I'm thinking that I'm not actually gay and that Carl isn't either but I don't say anything because my mouth still won't open.

Sam seems not to give it anymore thought anyway, and for a moment it stays like that until he looks up again and asks, "How are gay dudes supposed to act? Do they find license plates and old telephones and cameras and typewriters?"

Ron's about to explain but Penelope cuts him off.

"No, no," she answers. "Everyone's different. You act like you act; you play with _Invincible _action figures and eat candy. Aaron and Eric collect antiques. I act like I act. Ron, Mikey, Enid, Ollie, Carl, even Bean. We act like us."

Sam nods and says, "Cool," and then looks at Carl, "so you two like each other?"

Me and Carl nod at the same time.

"Like like kissing and holding hands?"

More nodding.

"And that's okay?"

The fact that he is asking makes me think that somebody has told him otherwise before.

"Yes."

It takes me off guard that it is Carl who answers him.

"Totally okay," he says. "Oliver and I like each other a lot. And it isn't wrong or not normal. Just like it isn't wrong or not normal for Ron and Enid to like each other, too. Or Aaron and Eric. It's the same."

Sam is shaking his head. "No, no, wait. Ron and Enid are _gross_. The other day I saw them—"

Ron grabs his little brother and holds his mouth shut.

"Shut up!"

"Hey!" Sam fights, struggling against a head lock. "Argh! _Rugh!_ Ron, get off me!"

Ron releases him.

"God, you're so _mean_!" Sam yells.

"You shouldn't have been sneaking around the house anyway. You little perv."

"I wasn't sneaking. I_ had_ to go into the basement to get more stuff for the owl sculpture. I'm _not_ a pervert! It's _your_ fault you both couldn't keep your clothes on!"

Ron dangles him over the edge of the gazebo and Sam screams.

"Say you're a pervert!"

"I'm _not_!"

"Say it!"

Michonne suddenly staggers around the lake, and we all stop laughing (or screaming). Ron puts his brother back, slightly terrified because Michonne is also carrying her katana. He swallows. She sighs exasperatedly and puts the weapon away.

"Guys," she says, "can we keep the horrified screaming to a minimum?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Sorry."

Penelope is whispering something to Sam that makes him grin so broadly he hides it in his knee caps. It's kind of amazing. She's like a dog whisperer for people.

"We should head back," Ron says after a moment, grabbing Sam so he jostles. It's odd; despite all this, Ron is exceptionally gentle to Sam. I remember Patrick doing the same kind of things to me and leaving bruises. But not Ron. Every time Ron lays a hand on him, Sam laughs. "Help Mom before Dad gets home."

He leaves with Sam and Carl and I, too, decide to go back to the first house with Michonne, since her shift is just finishing.

"See you tomorrow?" Penelope asks.

We nod.

"Are you gonna come to school?" she adds, whistling after Bean because he was following us.

"Probably," Carl answers.

"Just come. You might as well."

With a nod each, we all wave and go.

* * *

The sun is gone and inside 101 I read August for so long my eyes ache.

Ty knew I'd like it.

Everybody else's here, even Daryl was inside for a few minutes (now he's smoking outside again). Downstairs, Noah is teaching Carl to play cards. He offered to teach me, too, but I declined. Noah called me a, "Nerd," and I said, "Whatever, man."

Right now, I'm upstairs in the bedroom knelt in front of the bedside table, staring at it. Carl and I decided to hide our knives in here. Deanna wanted all of us to hand in every weapon, after the fight between Glenn and Aiden. We handed in spares. I'm pretty sure most of us did, actually. All I know is I'm not giving up Lizzie's knife for anything. I don't trust it. It has a bad reputation and I need to keep an eye on it.

I don't stop staring at the drawer. Glaring at it. I want to reach in and put it back where it should be, where I can keep it safe. . . where I can keep her safe. My thumb nudges under the drawer handle. I pull. But it doesn't move because I don't do it hard enough.

Want to.

My other hand comes up.

Mika's bracelet topples down my wrist a few centimetres. I pretend it's her, reassuring me, telling me, "She'll be okay in there. We both will," and I believe her.

Oak knocks when I let go and my tongue fills my mouth, holding my breath.

There are footsteps and I startle, pushing myself to stand and go to the door before whoever it is sees what I'm doing, or, rather what I'm not doing. Sitting in a dark room alone staring at furniture doesn't seem like a story I can explain very easily.

I slip out of the room.

"Oh," Gabriel jumps. "Hello."

I don't reply. He motions to the bathroom, looking tired and fairly calm, really. I mean, compared to being out on the road, so, not really all that calm I suppose. I step out of the way, pursing my lips to let him pass.

"Gabriel?"

He pauses at the door, dipping his head and sighing, like he knew this was coming. At first, I don't even process what I am about to talk to him about, and when I do, my heartbeat quickens. Adrenaline courses like wasp venom only it wasn't me who was stung. Not directly, at least. Still, I feel it.

"Is everything alright, Oliver?"

I blink. Gabriel's eyebrows lift slowly, then fall down even slower.

"I suppose not. Force of habit to ask." He tries to smile, but doesn't. "Uh, Oliver?"

"Carl told me."

Gabriel's nods at the wall like he's hoping he might slip through it like a ghost. I can't tell if it's because he's afraid or if he's just uptight. He can't be afraid of me? No one is afraid of me. I'm the kid with asthma. I'm the kid with cow-licked hair and tapping fingers.

"I thought he might."

I frown and Gabriel swallows.

"Why did you tell him all of that?" I get out of me. "I mean, come on, man," —never in my life have I called a grown man 'man' to his face— "it ate away at him, for _days_. And he only told me today because I figured it out myself."

Gabriel looks like a scolded dog. I read somewhere that you have to reprimand a dog while it's making its mistake, and if you yell at it afterward it's useless because the dog doesn't know what it's done wrong. I think of Gabriel like this, and it only makes me more distressed. I don't even know if it's worth trying. I don't know if I want to argue because I want to defend Carl or if I just want to argue because Gabriel was a total ass-wipe. Maybe I just want to argue_ to argue_, because I can't carry my knife anymore and Enid doesn't like us and there's –like– _nothing _wrong with this place and I _still _don't want to be here. . .

Before I realise it, I am ranting.

"Jesus, Gabriel, he isn't even mad at you," I say, clinging to one subject or I might burst out crying. "He wasn't even going to tell me what you said. He was gonna hide it from me for the rest of his life. For the first time in a long time today we got to be real kids, with _other_ kids who—who don't even think anything of it. Of us. One kid, Sam. He asked us if we were normal, for being together. Right to our faces. And it wasn't to make fun of us or make us feel bad or different or wrong. The kid was just _asking_, 'cause he wanted to know, you know? And do you know what Carl said? Carl said, it _was_. Carl said that there was nothing wrong with us. And Sam just nodded. It didn't even matter. He didn't even care because he didn't need to. It doesn't matter. None of it, Gabriel."

_Holy shit, _I think. _That was a lot of words._

**_But, Jesus, it felt good._**

"Are you?" is what Gabriel asks, his voice softer than I was expecting.

"What?" I hiss.

"Are_ you_ angry at me?"

"Yes." I don't even hesitate. "Yes, I _freaking_ am, Gabriel."

Gabriel blinks, not expecting that. I keep talking. . .

"And I will be for a while," I say, voice rising in pitch and dwindling in volume, close to tears all of a sudden. "You're an ass-hat for what you said. That was messed up, man. But I'm gonna let it go."

This, too, is not expected.

I swallow, say, "Whether I like it or not you are family. Neither of us have a choice in the matter so we might as well live with it." I'm panting, worn out. "Alright?"

Gabriel looks at me dead in the eyes, and then, like he really means it, he says, "Alright."

And it's like I can breathe again.

"Excuse me."

I go back downstairs.

Carl and Noah are still playing cards. I go to the alcove next to the front door, feet up on the cushions and facing the dining room to watch the game. When I glance up from my book, Carl catches me, giving me a: _Help me!_ look. I do well not to smirk. Instead I carefully squint at Noah's cards (I can barely see them from here but I manage). I shouldn't encourage cheating, but he looks so desperate. . .

I scratch four fingers across the centre of my sternum.

Four of Hearts.

Then I point with my finger to the _'A'_ in August's title, then look around, spotting a small crystal candle holder on the coffee table. _That's close enough to a diamond, right?_ I point with my eyes and think as hard as I can: _Ace of Diamonds._ I'm not sure what happens next, but it must work because when Carl plays his go Noah sighs in defeat and throws down his deck.

"I win," Carl says, in that way that turns me make-believe.

"Beginner's luck," Noah allows.

Michonne laughs and Carl scoops the cards together and neatens them, rather impressively doing that shuffle thing where you bend the cards to slot together. When he catches me looking at this he sticks his tongue out and I blow up. He looks back to Noah.

"Wanna play again?"

"You're on," Noah says determinedly.

Their next game commences. I'd never thought about it before but trying to symbolise King of Spades without anyone noticing is very tough.

I get caught.

"Oliver!" Michonne gapes.

I startle so hard I almost drop my book and have to scramble to grab it. Noah looks over his shoulder, realising.

"Hey!" he yells at me, then at Carl. His grin is evil and spectacular and cracks me up through the ceiling. "You both're the worst!"

For a few minutes the house is full of laughs and shaking heads. Noah broadens his shoulder to hide his new deck. I stuff my nose back into my book and ignore him (he's shaking his head and chuckling) until he goes back to his game.

"Now we'll see what your _real_ game is."

Carl doesn't look nearly as confident anymore, on the inside, but his outer 'poker face' is flawless. He does fairly well, too. Then Rick is making his way down the staircase. He's wearing his Constable uniform; smart, dark-blue shirt and tie and pants and coat and shoes, and against his arm and chest is a sewn-on badge each. Everyone falls into silence to stare at him. Rick smiles awkwardly and leaves out the front door, patting me on the shoulder.

"We good?" I hear him ask Daryl.

"Yeah," Daryl grumbles. "You a cop now?"

"Trying it on for size."

Carol goes out. The door is going to shut behind her but I stick my book into the gap before it can. They don't notice. August is only a few hundred pages. Luckily nobody inside notices either, since it's easy to look like I'm just resting the book off my shoulder like this.

"So, you were saying?" Carol asks.

"I think we can start sleeping in our own homes," Rick answers. "Settle in."

Nobody inside is listening or at least one head would have come up at that. But only I react, because inside my body, I become a living butterfly stud farm.

"We get comfortable here, we let our guard down," Carol's warning him, "this place is gonna make us weak."

"That's what Carl said," Rick tells her. "But it's not gonna happen. We won't get weak. That's not in us anymore. We'll make it work."

His voice lowers and I'm listening so hard I hold my breath.

"If they can't make it," he explains, "then we'll just take this place."

He leaves and I am not as surprised as I probably should be. I let out a sigh, pull August back, and the door shuts. I don't see it but I know Carol and Daryl must look at each other when they realise I was listening. Unconcerned, I keep reading, chin in palm for a moment until Carol comes back inside. I glance up at her. My jaw is grinding and I tell myself, _everything will be okay. It will. _My stomach is twisting in worry. Carol guesses that it's scrutiny and gives me a disapproving sigh.

"Heard that, huh?"

She closes the door behind her with a quiet click and presses her shoulder to wooden blinds so they make fluttery noises between her and the glass. I scoot up and tuck my knees to my chest to let her join me on the alcove seat, and she takes my offer, sitting beside me and leaning into my kneecaps.

I'm still reading, nodding slowly.

Carol sighs.

"It's..."

"I know," I interrupt her quietly, meaning it. "I get it. I understand. And I trust you. You always know what you're doing."

She smiles, troubled —always troubled. But she's grateful all the same. Then she touches the back of her fingers to my cheek. It's rare that she lets her motherly side push through like this, and when it does, I've noticed it's brief. Very brief. And when she stops it's always sudden, like she's only just realises what she's doing, doesn't want to get too close; to what, I'm not entirely sure. Maybe getting close to being so comfortable, or, getting close to me. . .

I try not to think about this because it makes me want to cling to her leg and never let go.

Still, I decide I can't tell her any of this. I decide I need to put on my own poker face. I won't even talk about it. If I do she might go again. . . No. She's not going to do that. I'll keep her happy. I'll let her brush her fingers through my hair. I'll let her tug the long waviness over my neck down as far as it will go. I'll let her not think about the things she tries so hard not to think about. . .

"You want me to cut it for you now?"

I nod and smile and my beanie drops to my lap.

"But not too much."

"No," she agrees, "not too much."

* * *

**Notes**

Thanks, **TheDarkerSide123** for the bee quote inspiration xD

Also, I agree with Mikey. Team Gale. XD Also, also, throwback when Oliver fell on his ass and said, "Dammit," to season 4 when Carl did the same thing.

Yes, this was a really shitty chapter. I know. But the down time is kind of really important right now. The story needs all of the reference material to use in later chapters when all of that inevitable shit happens. Ya know?

**I made a Caliver Community, then tried to delete it, but the website won't let me. Feel free to check it out anyway?**

As always,  
Happy reading :_)_


	13. Forget, Part 1: The Welcome Party

**DarthGanola **Aw, eek, thanks!

**BloodGutsandChocolatePudding **Haha, thank you, lovely x Yeah, Gabe can go drink some bleach for all I care.

**Rolo-chan **Haha, that would have been hilarious. I'll have one of them sing to the other one day haha probably not Lady Gaga tho... xD And sure! You should see the inner realisation in a few chapters time, just for you. Nell. Yeah, I'm weaning her into the story. I mean, I'm kinda going for the, "she's just another Alexandrian" vibe. Don't worry, I'm not expecting you to love her, really, I'm experimenting. It's been so interesting to see the different reactions and perceptions of her. Your view is so important to me, like, seriously, I'm not sure you realise haha It was weird, when you said about me getting her to go so far as to become _part of the family._I cringed. As much as I love her, she definitely isn't anywhere near that close to the group, and yeah, I still haven't decided what to do with her in the long run. Pulling the blanket out does sound like a fun way to screw Oliver up even more... But it's early days. And Bean, hmm, I'm not sure. I kind of don't think it's all that hard for dogs to survive in the apocalypse. Remember at the start, when there were a load of dogs with the walkers. Bean is bred to be a working dog too, so maybe he's got a few tricks up his sleeve, luring walkers away and then losing them or something. Or maybe he just got lucky x) I just felt bad making it _just _Nell who survived.

**The Flash Fanatic **Haha, thank you xxx Team Gale! xD

* * *

**Carl's POV**

"The pictures are gone."

"Huh?"

"Look."

"All of them?"

"Yep."

"Oh."

Weird, but Oliver and I don't think much more of it.

* * *

We're all shuffling around the house getting ready. I'm sat around the table sharing what's left of breakfast with Oliver (we woke up late; last night it took Oliver a long time to fall asleep for some reason, and in turn, I was kept up, too) when Dad comes back. He and Daryl were out 'teaching Carol shooting' which to anybody non-Alexandrian means 'doing something that nobody has told me about'. I asked Oliver and he avoided the question with the missing family photograph conversation, so I haven't asked again. Dad checks on Judith in the living room, then looks across at us. . .

"Oliver." His head pops up. He's lying along the table-top, reading August over his head. Dad sighs, says, "You got somethin' against using a chair?"

Yes.

"No, sir." Oliver grunts, rolls over, drops on a chair beside me. "My bad."

Dad heads upstairs, telling us to, "Go to school today," as he goes. I grin at my now-empty bowl. I've been trying to summon the motivation to go wash it, but I was having a nice time just looking at Oliver splayed in front of me. Now though, with that taken away, I pull myself to my feet and take my bowl to the sink. Glenn is here and tells me, "I'll do it."

"Sure?"

"Totally. Is it weird that I've actually missed washing up?"

"Probably."

"Here, man."

"Thanks."

He's humming to that Michael Jackson song. Two days and Thriller's still in all our heads. We aren't sure if the irony is offensive or hilarious. A page tears, then, while Oliver walks past into the hallway, a ball of flying white paper hits me square in the right eyeball.

"_Ack!_"

Oliver bursts out laughing like a firecracker. I frown once I'm done startling, ignoring Glenn who is laughing, too. When I unravel the balled-up paper, I read:

_'What's the plan for today then?'_

I find Oliver stood by the staircase and tell him, "Your handwriting's awful."

"Not as awful as yours."

"Funny," I say, even though he's telling the truth. I fold the paper and slip it into his back pocket, giving him a glare while I answer, "Dunno yet."

We both think, all the while listening to Dad and Michonne's voices from upstairs; muffled, so we don't hear any words. My hand is still in Oliver's back pocket. Both, actually. His back is to the staircase wall, banister above us, and I'm leant into him; chest to chest.

I say, "Could go over Ron's for a while, guess. Maybe go to school?"

He says back, "_Or…_" and starts whispering, leaning close enough I feel his voice in my ear rather than hear it, "we could stay here. Do that thing we talked about."

He doesn't kiss me but I let him press his mouth to the skin above my shirt collar, and I'm inhaling, looking down his shoulder-blade, holding in all the _YESYESYESYESYESYES_.

"Can't," I say sensibly, pulling my voice out like it tastes bad. "House isn't empty today."

"The other one is."

"Nope. We're moving some stuff over there, remember?"

"We'd go outside the wall," he whispers, "find some place nearby, a house or a car or another supply closet."

"What, and become walkerbait again?"

Oliver keeps the fact that we didn't even see a walker yesterday until _after _all the kissing and touching happened, and instead touches my neck again and says, "We'll be careful."

"Oliver, no," I laugh.

He relents with a displeased groan, but still goes ahead and kisses my throat, telling it, "Sucks. . ." And then when he demonstrates, I jerk back and grunt to stop him, also snickering, also ignoring the shivers running up and down all my organs. The electrical kind of shivers. Or magnetic, maybe. Yes. Definitely magnetic. There's nothing I can do to stop my eyes from dragging back across to his, so close his two become one. Like a planet of muddy gold rivers. That's how they harvest gold, right? Sometimes? Sift it through the water? I'll do that. I'll sit on his edge and pick out all his gold and give it all back to him.

I'm moving closer. I'm going to kiss him, too, but there's a knock at the door and we are both cracked down the middle. Oliver waits for me to step back so he can move but I don't and he finds it funny. His laugh is so close to my mouth I inhale it, breathe it in like I'm trying to breathe _him_ in.

"Oh, man," Oliver warns me, "you're kinda animated."

I look down. He's right. Animated enough I'm level three-and-a-half out of five (level: _Pocket-Stuffing _hardness). He's trying not to laugh at me for it but he's failing. I elbow him in the chest and spend a while thinking about walkers and my grandparents and bloody baby carriers. It doesn't help that Oliver is looking at me and blinking and biting his lip and glancing down too much, and then we're making out.

I'm level _five_ out of five (level: Steel freaking _Beam!_) when we both fall out of reality together, because we only realise Maggie is here when she makes a, _"Het-hem,"_ noise from across the hallway. We startle apart. Oliver says, "Sorry," and Maggie pretends not to notice how quickly we stuff our own pockets.

"Deanna's here," she tells us, and we can hear her and Glenn chatting. Deanna has this one smile that you can hear in her voice. "We're having a meeting over at her house in a few minutes. Me, Rick and Michonne. Go to school. No kissing 'til you're done."

We both nod like this is a normal deal we make all the time (it isn't and we don't), and Maggie motions us to go into the kitchen, so we go, quickly, and she heads upstairs. In the kitchen, we stand before the island with Deanna opposite us. The only people in here are her, Glenn, and Rosita.

"Oh my," Deanna smiles when she sees us, impressed. I think it's because our cheeks are red and she's wondering if our hands are trapped but she says, "Nice haircut," to Oliver. "I can actually see the face behind the mop. A handsome face at that."

I strongly concur.

Oliver smiles modestly, though, I can see him inwardly squirming and trying not to look at me. I didn't get a haircut. Carol asked but I refused (with a lot of passive aggressive insistence). Oliver had a few inches taken off, and was a lot less bothered about it, and now he's looking more like he did when I met him, only, completely different with the helpful aid of puberty in all the right places that I don't need to go into detail about right now. Plus, all the scars.

For an awkward moment Deanna keeps grinning at us, though, only awkward to us it seems because she looks more comfortable than ever. Oliver looks like he's not sure if he should thank her, or just scratch his head awkwardly. He opts to grunting his thanks because his hands are still in his pockets. Deanna chuckles and I realise she's enjoying this.

"How are you boys today?" she asks, humanely moving topic.

"Good," I answer her, and Oliver repeats it almost at the same time, adding a quiet, "ma'am," on the end in his way.

"I'm glad. Have you made new friends yet?"

We nod.

"Good. And how's school?"

We nod, but she must be able to tell we're lying. Maybe it's a politician thing.

"I hope you attend. It's not much, but education is everything to you kids your age."

Combined, we can both think of a houseful of more important things we need to think about before education even reaches the porch. Still, we nod.

Deanna's grin means: _You'll see, soon._

"In fact," Maggie says as she comes back into the living area—she must have been able to hear our conversation, "they're going to school today, right guys?"

"Yes, they are," Michonne says behind her, Dad on her tail. They collect a few things.

"Oh, I can get you a new watch, if you want?" Deanna offers when she sees Oliver check the time. "I'm sure I've got one or two you can choose from."

"Oh, no, that's fine," he says, pushing Lizzie's watch back into his front pocket. "It works, that's enough for me."

"It'd be no trouble. I've got spares," Deanna say. "It'll be better than carrying around grubby children's jewellery."

Oliver doesn't laugh. Instead he closes his hand around the 'grubby children's jewellery', bulging his pocket. Deanna notices this.

"Uh. No, thank you," he tells her wanly, "ma'am."

Deanna isn't smiling her thousand smiles anymore. She's nodding, her _'exceptional people reading skills'_ taking the hint and accepting his wishes. They leave for Deanna's, and a little while later Oliver and I go, too, because Glenn and Tara keep nagging us.

"Later," I say to them. Oliver, too, waving.

Ron's house is two doors down from the first house. School's taught by Erin in her garage near the brownstone apartments, but school's not for a little while so we figured we'd come here first. It's only when I get to the front door that I notice Oliver's stopped at the foot of it.

"You okay?"

He's watching Carol walk around the lake, spotting her through the trees.

"How long until school?" he asks me.

"Half hour, think." I don't fail to notice Oliver wince, neither do I fail to notice how Oliver didn't answer my first question. A few seconds pass. We can hear videogame theme tunes playing through Ron's bedroom window. Oliver's wince goes away when I ask, "You okay?"

His fingers tap restlessly against his thigh.

"Oliver?"

His eyes snap back at me.

"I'll count to three," I tell him. "Like my mom did when I was a kid. I'll go there, man."

Oliver cracks a grin then. "It's okay. It's just, I don't really wanna go sit up there for hours playing video games."

I exhale, because I knew this.

"Do you?"

"Kinda, actually," I admit, not meaning to sound a little curt. Oliver notices but laughs it off, arching his eyebrows, and I try to ignore the tug of frustration in my chest. "So, you're not coming in?"

"I think I wanna hang out with Carol," he says, "I'll come back soon though, okay?"

I nod, even though I knew he wouldn't come anyway.

"Sure?" he asks anyway.

"_Yes_," I scoff, pushing the centre of his chest. "Go."

"See you, man."

I watch him leave, and even though he won't hear I say, "Yeah."

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

"Carol."

She stops on the side walk to wait for me. "Hey, Oliver."

"Hey."

Today, Carol is wearing a floral sweater over a striped button up. Her pants are dark blue and so big around her ankles that I can only see the toes of her shiny burgundy shoes. Looking at Carol's wardrobe, especially here, makes me feel like I'm looking through a window made of rainbows. Grinning my head off, I ask, "Doing anything?"

"Jus' heading to Olivia's."

"Can I come with?"

"Oh." For a moment, Carol's expression drops, as if she's just realised something important. But she brushes it off, smiling at me—that same fake smile like the day we got here. I frown. She says, "Yeah, uh, sure. But uh... It's not much, you can go hang with your friends if you'd rather. It's, pretty boring."

Last night, after what I'd overheard, when it came to curling up on the floor between Carl and Maggie and someone else's elbow, I couldn't sleep. Not for a long time. My mind was racing over the things I didn't realise I was worrying about. Rick, Daryl and Carl have agreed to take over this place if they need to. I wanted to know what it would take for them to decide it. Would there be strikes? Colour-cards like in those soccer games on TV that Patrick would scream about? Or would it be a _one mistake and you're dead_ deal? My thoughts twisted and tangled like the weeds of that unkempt garden at the Grove, and Carl stayed awake and held onto my hands. We only fell asleep again when Rick got up and went into the kitchen. We had to pretend. Carl fell back asleep but I didn't. Rick doesn't know that I've seen him up every night since we arrived here. The first night he talked with Michonne. But now he's started rooting through the kitchen, taking out knives from drawers.

"I don't mind," I tell her what she wants to hear. "I can go."

"No, no." She looks taken aback for a moment, frowning, but then she smiles (again, it's that fake smile that makes my chest sting) and puts her hand on my shoulder to make us keep walking. She makes a friendly joke about mashed Lima beans, coco powder and sweetener, it makes me feel better.

A small group of kids run around us to go play tag by the solar panels. Sam among them. School must have just let out, which means school for the older kids should start soon.

There's a bear trap on my spleen.

"Do you like the people?" I ask her, not thinking about it.

Carol nods. "Erin, your teacher," _not yet,_ "she told me to hit her if I ever needed anything."

"Wait, you're not actually gonna hit her, are you?"

Carol gives me a look.

"Oh. Right. You were kidding, like you mean... right, okay, cool."

She changes topic: "Did you hear about the party tonight?"

"No."

"Well, there's a party. We're goin'. Everybody is."

I feel my gut twist at the thought.

"Hey." She gives me a gentle nudge on my elbow. "We gotta try, right?"

I take a steep breath and say, "Yes, ma'am."

"That's it, sunshine."

At the pantry, Carol knocks on the front door and Olivia answers.

"Hey, Carol."

"Hey."

Olivia glances at me, smiling expectantly, and I suddenly realise that I'm supposed to introduce myself.

"This is Oliver," Carol says when I don't, hands on my shoulders.

"Nice to meet you," Olivia says. We shake hands awkwardly. She's wearing a grey long sleeve cardigan and a blue top under it and a pair of silver dangly earrings, holding a notebook identical to Penelope's (they must be the only type here). Her glasses have slipped so she pushes them up her nose. "Your mom's told me a lot about you."

"Oh, err." I stutter and glance at Carol desperately, but she smiles.

"Don't worry," Olivia goes on. "It's all been good."

I nod like I'm expecting this.

"So," Carol says, presenting a piece of paper from her flip pad. "Can I take what's on list Anything you can spare."

"Butter, sugar, flour, and..." Olivia frowns and looks up like she's misread something.

"Apple sauce," Carol encourages, "substitute them for eggs. Oh, and if you have it, chocolate."

My ears twitch so hard I have to re-sit my beanie hat.

Olivia showing us inside through the garage and I am handed a small, green, plastic bag which Carol begins filling with ingredients. In here, shelves are stocked well with labelled food; jarred, canned, boxed, packaged, cooled. My mouth waters when I see a one-hundred-and-twelve ounce can of pudding.

"Do you guys really, uh, substitute apple sauce for eggs?" we're both asked. "_That_ could change my life."

We go through into the house, which, by what I can see of it, is a hallway with one full shelf against the right wall and a closed double door on the left. Carol's hands are on my shoulders, her chin stretched to look over my head. I think I've had a growth spurt in four days. This morning I looked in the mirror and I'd turned into a titan. Granted, a rather lanky titan, and in all honesty it isn't even that satisfying since Carl has grown in this time, too. I'd tried to boast but it turned out he's so much titan he's taller than me now by a whole centimetre. He hasn't been taller than me since Grady.

"If you could keep that between us," she replies. "It's sorta the secret to these cookies."

"Are you serious?" Olivia glances at me like I'm supposed to know, which, now that I think about her context, I probably should. Still, I can't help the completely overwhelmed look on my face, but luckily, Carol saves me.

"I am," she sings. "Girl's got only so many secrets."

**_And you, Carol Peletier, just so happen to have an entire castle full._**

"They'll die with me," Olivia promises. "Uh, the chocolate's kind of a trick."

I hold back the, _"noo!"_

"Do you actually have it?" Carol asks curiously.

"I can only ration you a quarter bar."

"I'll make it work," Carol says.

Just then, two men come in through the garage. I recognise one as Tobin, who works in construction with Abraham, and the other man I don't know. He's got dark skin and must work on construction, too. They're wearing thick protective clothing and work gloves sticking out of their pockets.

"Hey, Olivia."

Carol steps into me, gently pushing me backwards to move out of their way. She smiles politely to the other man while Tobin speaks.

"We're gonna need to make a withdrawal," he says.

"Late start?" Olivia asks.

"Well, boss lady wants me to check that strut on the East wall before the party."

"Head on back."

They walk down the short hallway and open the double doors, disappearing into what I now realise is the armoury.

"Carol, Oliver." Olivia's voice brings us to look back at her. "Grab what you need. Chocolate's in the hall freezer."

"Okay," Carol says, distracted. She watches the three of them go into the armoury and I go ahead and grab a quarter bar of chocolate from the freezer for her. It's cold and wrapped in foil and my taste buds start crying when I drop it into the plastic bag. Above the freezer on the wall is a black board and white chalk:

_'FISH 10  
DUCK 11  
DEER 6  
RABBIT 5  
CHOCOLATE 8'_

I rub out the eight with my thumb and draw seven instead.

Carol's still looking at them. When she notices I've noticed she smiles and asks if we're done. I say we are. Her eyes return to the others. I'm no mind reader, but I can tell she's trying to do ten things at once without me or anyone realising. I don't voice this theory. She turns to the armoury, making a hummy noise as she steps through. I frown at her.

"You afraid o' guns, ma'am?" Tobin asks. I almost scoff. Carol grins dottily, still playing possum. Watching her tilting her head like she's never seen a weapon before makes me feel like I'm not only looking through a window of rainbows but a portal of them, only, if you stuck your hand through to the other side you'd lost it.

"No," she confesses sweetly.

I follow her inside, feeling like the rain because I'm not skilled enough to play along. I'm glaring at Daryl's crossbow mounted on the wall behind them and thinking of Terminus and deciding I don't like it there. I'm looking at a big box labelled _HANDGUNS _and knowing full well that mine is inside, stripped clean and neglected.

"I had a handgun," Carol goes on possumly. She's at the window. "And I _carried_ a rifle when we were on the outside. But, I'm not an expert."

Tobin's messes with rifle safety. Off. On. He's showing off. He doesn't know that Carol knows this. He knows that I do, because he grins at me.

I flip him off inside my hoodie pocket.

"Not with those at least," Carol chuckles, turning to him.

"What 'bout you, kid?"

My head snaps up from a drawer filled with loose shells. Even though I'm a titan now, Tobin is _Godzilla_. He towers over me with a floppy grin and shoulders broad enough to barrel through herds. I swallow and tell myself he's just as clueless as the rest of them. A Great Dane. A giant harmless lap dog. Not in_ my_ lap, mind you.

I don't speak to him.

"Oliver knows his guns a lot better than I do," Carol says for me, lying through her teeth. "He's tried his best to teach me, but, I guess I jus' can't get a handle on the kick back. Leaves me with a bruise every time."

If I were drinking something, I would have spat it out all over the place.

"Well," Tobin grins. He's got his head dipped ridiculously low, looking up to her even though he's a planet and she's the incoming meteor. He doesn't know she'll leave a crater. "My name's Tobin. And, whenever you want, I'd be happy to teach you. Better to be safe than sorry."

"That'd be nice, thanks, Tobin."

It's only in this moment I realise they're flirting. Titan defence activates, and my shoulders square up and I almost growl at him. Carol doesn't notice. She's smiling at him like some loved up housewife. He, too, doesn't seem to notice. Tobin turns to collect his things and that's when Carol looks at me. Turns out she'd noticed from the start. She gives me a serious look and my head spins a little, reminding myself that this is all a façade. All of it.

"Thank you, Olivia," Tobin says.

She shows us out.

"So," I say when me and Carol are heading back to the houses, "you're telling people we're related?"

"No, they kinda assumed."

"Why don't you tell them the truth?"

"People remember the truth. When they're left to assume what they want they don't remember it so well."

I take a second, putting it all together. . .

"You're making yourself invisible?"

"Exactly."

* * *

**Carl's POV**

"_Player two: WINNER!_"

I'm player two.

"_Player one: Loser..._"

Ron is player one.

He practically throws his controller across the room. We're in his bedroom again. Enid, Mikey, Ron, Penelope and I. Sam was in here with some other kids but Ron kicked them out. I grin at him. . .

"I win."

"Why are you good at this?" Ron orders. "You're supposed to be feral. You know, no offence."

My eyes roll, offended.

"Ron, you are kind of terrible at it though," Mikey reminds him.

"_Pfft,_" he scoffs, grabbing his controller again. "Rematch. Now."

Enid is watching something in the hallway, I realise, and then Oliver shuffles into the room. He waves at Enid, and she ignores him and glares down at the comic in her lap. Oliver finds this funny, as well as confusing, as well as a little disheartening. Sometimes watching Oliver and Enid interact is like watching a fully-grown cat slap a puppy on the nose. No claw, just, you know, rude cat.

"Hey, guys," Oliver says stiffly to the rest of us. The replies are succinct. . .

Ron: "Dude."

Mikey: "Sup."

Penelope: "Salutations."

Enid: "Hi."

Oliver's eyes scan the room and when he sees me he smiles. I push myself over a little and he plops down on the beanbag, jostling me.

"Man, if I lose this level again, you try," Ron instructs him, then jolts my knee with his own. "This _punk's_ too cocky for his own good."

"You get used to it," Oliver says. I punch him in the chest.

"Finish this game," Penelope says. "We gotta go."

"Okay, just a sec."

* * *

I'm not entirely sure what I'd expected with school.

To put it short, it's boring.

Erin, who is one of the teachers, is friendly and soft spoken and helpful. She keeps us occupied with forty-five minute classes, algebra in Math, The Industrial Revolution in History, and Yellowstone in Geography, and then, finally, metaphors and similes in English.

For the majority, I'm lost. I have to peek at Mikey's or Oliver's notes. Maybe I _should've_ gone to Story Time after all; Oliver doesn't seem to be having nearly as much trouble as me.

Erin says, "Can I get an example of a metaphor, anybody?"

Mikey, whose head is rested on his desk, puts a hand up. Erin nods, so he goes ahead and groans, "Home is like a _prison_," and Oliver barely stops himself laughing his ass off. We're told to come up with four by ourselves, and while everyone begins scribbling down examples in their textbooks I become aware of how much Erin's previous definition has flown right over my head.

Carefully, I glance at Oliver's notes. Noticing me, he moves his hand and tilts the paper for me to see, circling a small block of text with a blue sharpie. He also writes in small print:

_'You are like a storm'_

I grin and look up to him, thinking, _I'll be the thunder and you can be the lightning; not one without the other, okay? _and he thinks back, _Okay. _I'm blushing stupidly, like I'm crushing on him and I don't have a clue he's crushing on me, too. The butterflies are pointless and spectacular and I'm vibrating out of my own skin. The storm is in my chest, pouring and flashing and booming.

"Carl." Erin's voice makes us startle. Quickly, Oliver pulls back his pad. She smiles like she's onto us, says, "If you're confused about anything, you can just ask."

"Sorry."

"Are you confused?"

Despite myself, I say, "No. I get it now."

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

Bean trots in front of us all, leading the way back like an escort. Mikey left the other way, so it's just me, Carl, Ron, Penelope and Enid.

"I think everyone's dressing up a little for tonight," Penelope tells us over her shoulder. She's walking with Enid ahead of us. They're holding hands. Apparently, this must happen a lot because Ron doesn't think twice of it. "Just, you know, something nice. Not too fancy."

"I'm still getting used to wearing clean clothes," Carl says, "let alone fancy."

"Don't worry," she says incredulously. "Clean's enough. Consider yourself lucky, Aaron's challenged me to wear a dress."

I don't mean to laugh but luckily she laughs along with me. Skirts and dresses have never been Penelope's style. I think the last time I saw her in a dress was the yellow and white frock her mom made her wear for Independence Day. Out of the two of us, _I _am probably who would willingly wear a dress first.

I choose to keep this fact to myself.

Enid and Penelope spend a few moments talking together, only they aren't talking aloud. It's telepathic. I know it; like how me and Judith or Carol or Carl talk sometimes, with twitchy eyebrows and pursing lips and grabby hands. Seeing it happen is like watching a foreign movie without subtitles. By the look on Ron and Carl's face, they think this, too.

Then, no word of a lie, Enid grins at her.

Carl and I almost stop in our tracks, but Ron doesn't even bat an eyelid so we shrug it off. I get the feeling he knows that the moment we react she wouldn't smile at all anymore, which would be a shame. Enid has a really nice smile. Enid has a kind of really nice smile that makes you smile, too, like a game of _Simon Says_, because then Ron is smiling and Carl, too, and even Bean's muzzle looks soft and still and quiet.

Only Penelope isn't smiling.

Penelope never really liked games anyway. Plus, I'm starting to think Penelope is Enid proof. They aren't looking at each other directly. They hardly ever do, actually. They look at noses and mouths instead.

"Will you come with me tonight?" Penelope asks aloud, finally.

Enid's smile has an allotted time allowance, it seems, because then it falls, and along with it, so do ours. Then, for a few seconds, Enid looks into Penelope's eyes, and Penelope lets her.

Carl and I exchange a look, but it's nowhere near as intense as theirs.

"I'm not going," Enid says finally. Their hands slip away from each other and I think about thunder without it's lightning.

"I know," Penelope says.

Ron is watching them now. His brow knitted and his breath very quiet, and Ron's a mouth-breather so you can always hear him if it's quiet enough. Enid, who looks like she's sorry and trying not to be, steps over to him and tugs on his shirt sleeve once. This is their _See you later,_and then she disappears inside her house. Penelope watches her, all of us watching them both, until she brushes Bean's scruff and they both follow after her.

"Later, guys," she says, shutting the door.

Ron, Carl and I walk back to our street in quiet. Ron must be able to tell we're confused because just before he turns to his home, he tells us, "Listen, they've been through a lot. I know it can get weird around them and I know you don't know an awful lot about it all. To be honest I don't either. But it's better not to think about it too much. Easier to let them do that themselves."

We both nod. Carl waits until we're inside the first house before speaking. . .

"I guess you were right."

"What?" I ask.

"Enid. She isn't trying to be mean," he answers. "I think she's just naturally a... um, naturally like that."

I snicker, pretty sure he was going to use a fairly derogatory term that's usually used for a female dog. Carl rolls his eyes, ignoring me.

"_Elusive._"

I laugh, nodding in approval. "Yeah. Guess. Actually, I like that._ Elusive Enid._ Hmm. Kind of has a ring to it, huh?"

Carl smiles. "So, Enid and Penelope, do you think..."

I grin.

"What?" he blurts. "It's just a question."

I chuckle. "I'm pretty sure they're just friends."

"But, they held hands, and, yesterday Penelope kissed her forehead."

"So, we did that. Few times."

"Yeah," Carl smirks, "and look where _that_ got us."

I snort and shove his shoulder, "C'mon, sap."

* * *

Michonne put her katana on the wall above the inglenook in the first house. Noah and Tara and Abraham and Rosita have been moving some stuff into the second house. Carl still isn't wearing his hat and I'm doing homework and Rick has shaved again and Noah is ironing a shirt. Jesus, Carol is _baking_. . .

Alexandria is making us weird.

Not weak, I don't think.

Just, weird.

I can smell the chocolate cookies cooling downstairs. Earlier, I'd gone down to take one for Carl and I, but Carol caught me and sent me upstairs with a stern kiss on the forehead and instructions on the outfit she wants me to wear tonight. She, already, has dressed into a mostly black and white outfit; a patterned lace cardigan over a dark sleeveless blouse, complimenting her pearl stud earrings. She really does look like a possum, just a very beautiful and classy looking Carol-possum.

Rick arrives home just as I finish Carl's homework (I said I'd do it for him) and he comes up to check on us. He sees the laid-out outfits on the bed closest to him, and then he sees us. I'm sprawled across the floor doodling patterns and shapes into my textbook margins, and Carl's sat up on the bed reading a comic. We're both still wearing the same clothes we wore yesterday. He points at the en-suite, says, "One of you in there," then points into the bathroom out in the hallway, "the other in there," then he points to the clothes, "when you're done washing, get dressed."

Carl and I do as we're told.

In just a few minutes I decide that solitary shower-_nothings _are just boring and sad. Regardless, time is of the essence and we really have procrastinated for too long, so I get back into the bedroom a few minutes later. Carl is sat on the blue bed buttoning up a brown-and-nude-coloured flannel shirt, concealing a grey T-shirt under it. His shoes match and he still has no hat and he laughs at how much this makes me sulk while I slump down on the opposite bed and pull on my own clothes; denim jeans, a white raglan T-shirt with green sleeves, and a dark-green V-neck sweater. Also, the new beanie. I've been given odd socks on accident so I spend an extra few minutes scouring the house for a matching pair.

"Have you ever been to a party?" Carl asks.

"Once."

"What was it like?"

"Weird," I answer, finding my book. "Pat made me go, said I could have fifteen dollars if I went with him."

"What?"

"Mom wouldn't let him go. He used me to convince her that it would just be a sleepover. But it wasn't. There were older kids with weird clothes and everything smelt really... _weird_. At one point some couple barged into where I was hiding and yelled at me to get out while they... you know."

Carl snickers.

"Anyway, in the end it was okay. The girl throwing the party, Dani, she and I made milkshake for everyone and I sat and played with Cat."

"Cat?"

"Their cat, Cat," I say. "The cat was called Cat. Cat was, like, the coolest cat ever."

"That's a lot o' cats."

"Yep. I'm actually pretty sure I just got high from the smoke everywhere."

Carl laughs. "Didn't take you for a junkie."

"Whatever," I frown. "Never even got that stupid fifteen dollars."

Carl smirks and lies back along the bed. "Can't imagine you guys high."

"How do you even know about that stuff?"

"Daryl."

"Of course."

"I heard Abraham say he wouldn't stay unless there was a decent beer."

"What does that even mean? Decent beer. Isn't it all just the same?"

"I honestly don't know. When I tried the wine at the CDC it was disgusting."

I'm sitting beside him now, pushing his knees up so I can lean against them.

"You worried?" Carl asks, sitting up. I notice I'm tapping my fingers on his kneecap.

"A little."

"Don't really like parties."

"You'll be okay," he smiles, getting up close by flipping his leg over my lap. "Just, take your book with you. But, you know, don't read it all the time."

"Try and stop me."

He grins while I kneel up to stuff _August_ into the back of my jeans, concealing the novel behind my sweater, and then he's tugging me to shuffle closer to him, tipping us back a little.

_Oh, boy, _I'm thinking. _Oh, boy, oh boy, oh boy..._

"I wonder if we'll ever actually have the house alone," Carl mumbles. His hands are on my hips, slipping under my shirt. When he does this, I convince myself that both of our lives are pounding inside of me. I dip my face, pressing my forehead to his collarbones, and we're quiet and gentle and calm, only we aren't because we're _pounding_. I tell him I can't stop thinking about him, and he says, "You, too."

I look up at him, mouths so close I think we're a stone sculpture, unable to move, frozen in the moment before a kiss.

"I wanted to tell you I'm not nervous."

I frown, not expecting this.

"Well, right now I'm not," Carl explains, his voice warm against my mouth. "Maybe I will be. But, right now, I'm just thinking about how those cookies are gonna taste with apple sauce instead of eggs."

I kiss his Adam's apple and laugh, and Carl seems to decide right here and now to take my beanie between his teeth and pull it off. He drops it beside us and I whisper, "I bet they'll still taste great. How could they not? They're _chocolate._"

He pulls me down so we're all matched up; face to face, chest to chest, groin to groin. . .

"Here," Carl says. His eyes are all pupil and he throws his head back to reach across the bed for his hat. He pushes it over my head, slowly, and even though it isn't his intention I push myself down his chest as well. . . "You can wear it tonight," he says to the ceiling, feigning nonchalance, "if, uh, if you want to."

I unbutton his shirt all the way down.

"Still just thinking about the cookies?" I ask into his stomach—do other things to his stomach.

I feel him shake his head, hear him mutter, "Not so much anymore."

"Nervous now?" I ask.

"No."

"What about now?"

He swallows, looks down, inhaling steeply, and I hardly do anything but he still shudders hard enough the bed jostles. "Totally."

I laugh.

"Good nervous," he explains quickly. "Nervous like before."

"Like always," I whisper, and then. . .

"C'mon! Let's go, boys!"

* * *

Inside Deanna's house, people are wondering around chatting and entertaining. The lights are all on and there's music playing; piano, but from a CD rather than from an actual piano, which is kind of sad. On the dining room table is about a million blue and green drinking cups and some empty wine glasses and about a million and one unopened beer bottles. Abraham's going to think his birthday.

"Oh, my!" Deanna spots us from across the hallway inside the kitchen. She's stood talking with Mr. and Mrs. Miller and another old man; Reg, her husband, I think. The Miller's still look mildly annoyed when they see us. She leaves them to greet us. "Welcome!"

Rick shuts the door behind us while Denna shows Carol where to set her tray of cookies down on in the table. A woman, Mrs. Neudermyer, I think, walks down the staircase as we enter, smiling. Rick smiles back. Me and Carl try to copy him but Carl does a better job because I'm hiding under his hat (I knew there was a reason he did this). Deanna is coming over to speak to us and she's making a beeline to me—no, Judith. I practically throw her at Rick. Deanna changes course.

"Thank you for coming," Deanna tells him, cooing to the infant. Rick still looked a little taken aback by how suddenly I'd handed his daughter to him, so he doesn't say anything. Deanna doesn't mind and says, "You know, I didn't get a chance to interview this one. I envy her."

"Why?" Rick asks.

"She'll get to see what this place will become."

Carl is looking at Judith like he's watching a sped-up sunrise, all at once, overwhelmed by _happyandsad_, I think, or maybe something else he doesn't let me in on because the second I touch his fingertips, he turns to me and says, "Let's go find the others."

Rick casts us a quick look, and we nod, agreeing silently to stay inside the house. A small voice in my head reminds me that we aren't very good at this, but I ignore it.

Mikey and Penelope are in the dining room.

She is wearing a dress.

It is a white button-up with a collar and small lace frills. The hem stops just above her knees and she's wearing a thin, braided, brown belt around her waist. Over the dress, she's got a dark-brown, long sleeve cardigan, and holding back a part of her fringe is a small clip with a few small beads dangling from it. I see a necklace around her collar, the little green rock rested on her chest.

I remind myself I have a jaw and that I need to close it.

"No Enid?" Carl asks.

"No Enid," she answers him, then glances at me and smiles at my clothes. "Fancy."

"You look totally beautiful," I tell her. Her cheeks go red and her smile is haggard and self-conscious, but she uncrosses her arms, at least.

"You see, you can say that to her," Mikey tells me grudgingly, "but when I tell her that, I get a punch in the arm."

I snicker.

"That's because you weren't looking at my face when you said it, asshole," Penelope growls at him. "And you didn't use the word beautiful either."

Mikey blushes, skulking, but not before accidentally glancing down at the two subtle bumps on her chest. Penelope punches him, hard.

"Ow! I didn't mean to! I've just never seen you looking... hot."

Penelope scowls at him and slumps onto the chair next to him. I'm laughing. She's sitting slouched and with her legs open and her hands in her lap, totally not how people in dresses are supposed to sit, and it's awesome. She's like an effeminate Rambo. Mikey decides to stop looking at her altogether and I have to cover my mouth.

"I'm never freaking dressing like this again."

"Oh," Carl says after a second, fishing into his pocket. "I got us something."

My eyes are already rolling.

"What is it?" Mikey asks.

"Deck of cards."

* * *

Ron's here now. He, Penelope, Mikey and Carl are playing cards. I'm trying to read my book but the house is too crowded and cluttered. There are people talking at every angle about whether the curtains are silk or cotton and what goes better with this type of tea and that and if you should roast or boil parsnips, and finally, it gets too much.

I slip away to the side porch.

Outside, the early evening it is quiet and warm and there's nobody here. I take a seat on the deck edge, dangling my legs over the edge so I can lean forward and stick my arms through the banister. I think of when I did the same thing back at the prison. The sun is still out, barely, making the community glow gold and orange.

I read.

I just read.

I'm lost in Beckett's imagination. Only Tristan and Grace exist. I live in them; desperately holding onto life after the car crash and sharing the past as not to die because of it.

And it's totally great.

For a moment, I fall out of imaginary and see it. One page. Folded in the back of the book. I open it carefully, like the whole book might suddenly fall from my hands and blow away without me. On the very last page is a note for me. . .

_'Remember to let me read this after you.  
Ps. How was Tom and Huck?_

_— Ty'_

Just a short note and a continent has planted itself inside my gut.

"It was good," I answer him, finally. "It was good, Ty." A door closes behind me and I pull my arms out of the banister, snapping my book shut. It's Penelope.

"Hey," she says, carefully walking over like she's trying not to spook me. While she takes a seat in the space I make for her next to me, I blink away the dampness in my eyes and ask Tyreese to the back of my mind again. After a moment, Penelope nudges her knee against mine to get my attention back from the blue jay I'm staring down in the tree opposite me.

"Swiped them from the table."

Two beer bottles are sitting in her hands, a can-opener tucked under her pinkie. I look at them, then her, then them again, and then I'm back to staring down the blue jay again. It flies away.

"Here." After two pops, cold wet glass is pushed into my hand and she drops bottle lids to the decking between us. "Got these, too." When she presents two cookies from her dress pocket, we both grin. "Knew you'd like one. I've got two more after these."

I know that eating cookies out of someone's pocket isn't very hygienic, but neither of us care. I wolf the cookie, savage it, but I take my time on the second cookie Penelope hands me. I don't drink yet. But Penelope does. When she finishes one bottle she goes and grabs several more.

"I like your hat," she tells me at some point.

I look up at its strange dent; he probably stood on it in his cell or left it under the cot at an odd angle or something. I don't tell her it's not actually my hat. In fact, I don't say anything.

"Who's Ty?"

I shrug first, eyes darting all over the place for somewhere to hide. I opt to using Carl's hat. But then I remember who I'm talking to, or rather, not _talking_ to, per se. . .

"A friend," I explain, frowning at my hands. "He died, a week ago."

Penelope bites her lip so hard I worry she'll draw blood, so I shrug again, meaning it this time. She puts her second bottle down and nibbles on her cookie.

"You still talk to him."

I don't say anything because it wasn't a question.

"You don't have to tell me about them all."

I look at her and say, "But I want to."

Penelope shivers. With the dimming sky, the temperature is already dropping, so I pull off my sweater and hand it to her, tugging down my sleeves. I look out through the banister again, over Alexandria, see the first and second houses and a little part of the lake, while she takes off her cardigan and replaces it with my sweater. She sighs and I watch her hug herself and smile at the sky with her eyes closed and her mouth open, like she's going to eat the air.

Now _I'm_ shivering.

Penelope hears my teeth clatter and offers my sweater back, but I shake my head. She pushes her cardigan over instead. When I hesitate, she tells me, "I used to wear your clothes all the time, might as well return the favour."

I put it on. It's tight and soft and it doesn't feel as _girl _as I thought it would, which I guess I don't really have an opinion on anyway because I'm also thinking that nothing I wear normally ever feels particularly _boy _either. She's smiling at me. I take a sip from my drink, forgetting what it is at first and grimacing when I force myself to swallow. It's bitter. _So _bitter. I think I've swallowed grass, not alcohol.

I take another gulp a second later.

Then another without even putting it down.

When the bottle is empty my face twists up all over the place. Penelope is laughing at me, patting my back when I start hiccupping uncontrollably.

"You're not supposed to drink it all at once, Ollie!"

"It's so gross."

She hands me another.

"Thanks," I say, chugging for a few long seconds until I've finished this bottle, too, and I'm given another, and I drink that until my throat fills up with bubbles and I have to gulp them down for a few minutes until I can relax my face again. "I kind of get why Pat drank this stuff so much, but, I also kind of don't at all."

Penelope is quiet then. I realise it's because I'd said his name. I realise I go quiet, too. . .

"You don't have to tell me about them all, either."

She looks at me and says, "I don't want to."

She's smiling, but it's with her mouth, not her eyes. I think of Carol's possum smile and I realise Penelope is a possum, too, and I realise who else here could be as well. The Alexandrians seem perfect, but they can't be. Nobody is. Mikey complains about his dad and Enid hardly smiles and Betsy has old scars on her wrists and Sam has bags under his eyes. Everybody has something. That's just the way it is.

"Thanks for the sweater, Ollie."

"Thanks for the cardigan."

She rests her head on my shoulder, and then, very gently and even more carefully, she tucks her hands into the gap between my wrist and thigh, slipping ten fingers under my palm to tangle them there. I think about Lizzie and Mika and the nights at the Grove when they'd curl up with me on the couch like this. Then I think of Beth, how she refused to feel sad about things that just _were _sad. How is it possible for one person to represent so many people all at the same time? It breaks my heart, and yet, makes it soar and skip a beat whenever I set eyes on her. But she is not any of them. Penelope Rostenkowski is a fierce and unique individual, with strength in her veins and fire in her heart. . .

. . .and hair.

I'm giggling at myself, drinking until this bottle is finished, finishing my cookie, too. How many is this? Three? Cookies, or beers? Shit. Doesn't matter. At least I'm not giggling as much anymore. For a long while we sit in each other's company, quiet and settled and drinking and holding hands. It's pitch black and I'm thinking about what Carl would look like as a blue jay; plumage as electrifying as his eyes, and I'm giggling again – that I realise how long we've been out here.

"Want me to go get more?"

_No thank you, I'm good_—I nod.

"Okay. Back in a sec."

She is. I swear, Penelope is a ninja. When she slips back outside a few moments later, I don't say anything as she takes a careful seat beside me, concealing three more beers under my sweater.

"Here. Another cookie, too. Wanna split it?"

I nod, and she snaps the cookie in half and hands me the bigger piece. I switch and take the smaller piece instead, chugging the bottle when she hands it over.

"I forgot how quiet you are," Penelope says, swinging her legs back and forth over the balcony. I stop frowning at them when they make my lungs spin while the rest of me vibrates the other way. "Remember that old man in Five Guys?"

I nod, croak, "Eddie."

"No," she suddenly laughs, "that wasn't his name."

"On his name tag," I frown.

"I know, he found it funny, never changed it even though it wasn't right."

I snort.

"He always called me Little Lady," se recollects. "And you Little Man."

Nostalgia makes my head wilt, and then I realise it's me, wilting like a flower and flopping forward so my head bumps into the banister. Penelope giggles and touches my shoulder-blade.

"You know, he thought you were mute for three years."

"No way," I say, or, try to—shit.

I hear her drinking.

"Well, why didn't you tell him I wasn't."

"What?"

I repeat my question.

"Ollie, you gotta open your mouth so people understand you."

I frown, complain, "But you're my subtitles."

She shakes her head and smiles incredulously, tells me, "You're still not opening your mouth, man."

I decide I'm blind, she's all warping up. Not my Penelope. I reach out to her and try to put her into the right shape but she pushes my hands away and tells me to stop, so I do, apologising with my hands in my lap and my forehead back against the banister, taking a deep breath and concentrating. . .

"I never had anything to say."

"Do you now?" she asks me.

I finish my bottle and think about how warm my throat and stomach are.

"_Wise men talk because they have something to say,_" Penelope is saying to me. "_Fools, because they have to say something._"

"I knew I knew that from somewhere!" I cry, rolling my head to look at her.

"I love that quote. From some philosopher, Plato, or something."

I smile, taking a drink but my bottle is empty. I tap the last sealed bottle top for her to open it, please.

"Maybe that should be it for you tonight. You've had four already."

I keep tapping, asking, "Pleeeaase."

Se relents, but on one condition: "Know any more quotes?"

While she pops open my fifth bottle, I shake my head because my brain isn't working. "You do," I say.

She clears her throat, says, "_Be yourself; everybody else is already taken._"

"Who's that from?" I hiccup into the railing, gripping the top if it so I don't fall off of the edge of the world.

"Oscar Wilde."

"Anymore?" I ask, but I hear, "Amoo?"

Penelope forgets she has short hair and tucks a lock of longer than long hair behind her ear, then she says, "_Don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened._"

"Dr. Seuss." She grins, impresses. The spinning in my head doesn't waver and I'm realising how much I probably should have stopped after the second bottle. Regardless, I take a series of big gulps, slap the bottle down, groan, and say, "_Gahhhh!_"

"You got any?"

Frowning, I sit up straight and think very hard, holding my head in one piece and sort of squashing Carl's hat a little in the process.

"Oh, okay: _There's no greater agony that bearing an untold story inside of you._"

"I totally feel that," Penelope says, joking, then then _not _joking at all. Her smile is gone but she pushes through it: "Who's that from?"

"Maya Angelou," I answer. "Liked her poems. Found a bunch at the prison."

"Prison?"

"Oh," I nod, nod and nod and _oh geez I should stop nodding_. "Uh. That's where we lived, for a while. I was there for about two and a half months, but the rest were there for like, almost a year, I don't know. Long _long _long time." I'm rambling, so I stop, frown, then decide to say, "Bad man. Came and killed a bunch of us. Some got out. Separated. Lost..."

Finally, I really do stop because Penelope's lip is bleeding. I point, feel like crying, and she hides her face and lies and says her lips are chapped until it stops and she can look at me again.

She laughs (it's a possum laugh) and says, "So, Carl's kinda extremely influential, huh?"

This makes me laugh. For a while I'm all laughs, thinking Carl's funny like that. Thinking it's easy to like him and I can tell that he knows it, too. Back at the prison, kids always wanted to be his friend. Me, especially. But even though he knew it, he never actually acted on it, even though he could have. He avoided us, most of the time. Hell, it took me weeks to just have a normal conversation with him. But it's different here. Carl isn't at the top of the food-chain and I can see he knows it, too. But it's okay like that. The other kids still respect him. Plus, Ron will always sit at the top of the pecking order anyway because he's eighteen. I guess Noah could sit there, too, but Noah doesn't really hang out with any of the kids. Even now, I think I saw him holding a beer cup full of peanuts, not talking to anybody. Parties aren't really his scene.

I realise I'm daydreaming when Penelope taps my arm. I look at her, slouching again, and say, "It's all his colourful flannel shirts."

"Oh, of course!" Penelope Rostenkowski had always been my sarcasm soulmate. "How did I forget!?"

I can't help my laughing. I laugh and laugh and laugh, so hard that when I hit the banister with a thump, I stay there and laugh through the gaps. Finally, I settle, tired.

"You really like him, huh?"

I nod against wood, reaching for my bottle. It knocks over. Luckily though, it's empty.

"How long've you been dating?" is the second question. I giggle because she called it 'dating'. I'm not sure if we've ever been on a date. I don't even think we've ever outwardly address each other as boyfriends.

"Not that long really," I say, "few months, think. Known him since the grapes and pecans were falling."

"Fall?"

"Right."

Her eyes are green and looking all over my face for something. She doesn't find it, so she asks, "Do you love him?"

"Yes."

She squints a little, like she's confused. "How do you know?"

I shrug dramatically. So dramatically I fall on to my back. My stomach flips into my throat so I swallow it down again, stretching my arms up along the wooden deck so I can make sure it's all still there.

"Come on," she insists, smiling, flicking the brim of Carl's hat. "How do you know you love him?"

I frown up at the night sky. No one's ever asked me this before and my answer is sappy and embarrassing and I think my body is toppling out of itself. I grab my empty bottle and press the cold to my mouth, and with the new language barrier, see it fit to be able to say, "He is soft and gentle and smells of dirt and sweat but the good kind. He's like a puzzle that figures you out instead of the other way around, but nobody knows this except me because I have special Carl-binoculars that let me see things he doesn't let anybody see, and we do this thing where we become imaginary together just by talking, and he knows what I'm thinking like he's inside my head, and I don't mind it, and I mind that always but not with him, with him it's okay, with him I am just existing."

"Ollie," Penelope insists. "I can't hear you with a bottle in your mouth."

I take it out, translate all the sappy-gross-romantic-slush to, "He's everything to me."

"Oh."

"Yep."

"Everything?"

"Totally," I sigh.

She smirks. "You know what that's called?"

"No," I say, "but I'm sure you'll tell me."

"Limerence."

"I thought it was just called love."

"Nope."

"Limerence?"

"The state of being infatuated with another person."

"So, love, right?"

"Yes." She rolls her eyes. "Fine, love. If you wanna be boring about it."

I laugh at her. Her eyes are on the yard again.

"I can't imagine feeling that way about someone."

"One day."

She shakes her head.

"Why?" I ask curiously.

"I'll lose them."

I swear, in that moment, Penelope breaks my heart.

"I'm sorry," she forces a chuckle. "That was kinda dark, huh?"

"Kinda," I agree.

"Uh, I, um. I have another quote."

"Yeah?"

"Lemony Snicket – _Never trust anyone who hasn't brought a book with them._"

I grin madly and pull out August from my jeans.

"You're amazing!" she laughs. I let her read the blurb.

"Oh, I got another quote."

"Yeah?"

"_All you need is love,_" I recite. "_But a little chocolate now and then doesn't hurt._"

Penelope laughs, taking a bite of her chocolate chip cookie.

"Someone Schulz, I think," I credit.

Distracted, Penelope says, "There's... um, something about these cookies."

"Apple sauce instead of eggs."

She stares ahead, chewing carefully, swallowing. . . "Ew."

"No," I disagree. "It's great."

"Yeah," she says as if she's only just realised. Then she grins and hands me the last chunk. "Here. You have it."

"Sure?"

"Yeah. Ever since Aaron told me his mom used to make him eat that stuff. . . eugh."

"Why would Aaron's mom make him eat apple sauce?"

"She wanted to make him more manly," she answers.

I scoff, "God. People were so stupid."

Penelope hums in agreement, says, "Some still are."

All evening I've been catching people looking over at me and Carl when we talk together, not many people, I guess, but my heart still froze when I thought I heard someone _tut_ through their teeth when Carl sat beside me and held my hand, and earlier, I'd seen Nicholas glaring at us when we were talking to Mikey, like we're some contagious disease that he'll catch. Maybe I'm just being self-conscious, or over thinking it, but from what Penelope's just said I'm not so sure anymore.

I push it to the back of my mind, not liking thinking about it and figuring it's irrelevant anyway.

Penelope gestures the cookie to me again. "Take it. I don't want it."

"Thank you," I say, taking it, and while I'm tipped forward I decide to kiss her cheek.

Penelope flinches and pulls away.

I blink, say the first thing I can think of.

"Sorry."

"It's fine," she says quickly, knees up now. "I just wasn't expecting it."

I frown, confused, wondering if I'd done something wrong, if kissing each other's cheek is maybe something we're not supposed to do anymore, though, that doesn't make sense.

Penelope is gripping the banister like she wants to leap over it.

I finish my cookie, say, "We should go inside," because I know she wants us to. When I pull myself up by the banister, a head rush like an earthquake rumbles through my skull. I blink it away. My brain is floating in mush.

"You okay?"

I nod dizzily.

"Ollie?"

"A little swimmy."

"Have you ever drank beer before?"

I shake my head no, gripping the banister with two hands. Is it moving? I'm sure it's moving. _Oh, fuck. _A hand is on my shoulder and I'm guided inside.

"Maybe five bottles at once wasn't such a good idea..."

"Hmm." It's a giggle not a confirmation, apparently.

"You light weight."

"Come on. I'm fine."

* * *

I am definitely not fine.

I keep asking where the piano is.

"It's not a piano," Carl is telling me.

"But I can _hear_ it."

He laughs because I hold his ears and gently pull them forward.

"Oh, man, it's _so _good!" I moan. "Can't you hear it?"

"Yes." He puts my hands back in my lap, his voice casual, factual. "But it's not a piano. It's a CD. You know that. I saw you looking at it."

"Damn," I groan. "Ohh, listen to those _keys_, man. _Ugh._ I need to press them _all_. Carl, I _need_to."

"Okay, Oliver."

"I _really _want to play piano, man."

"I know."

"What about ukulele. I can play those."

"Haven't seen one. What about this?"

August hovers in front of my nose and I giggle and take it while Carl sets me down at the table to read. Seeing I'm settled, he, Mikey, Ron and Penelope continue their card game. But my head is foggy and the words on my page aren't staying in the right order. I read one sentence a hundred times, and every time it has added words or taken them away or swivelled them over on each other.

"Sit still," I tell them all. "Sit still so I can see you."

"You okay, Oliver?"

"No."

Carl comes over because he can sense I need the help. I point at the page.

"What's this?"

Carl reads: "_'He could not tell her of the fear. The perfect fear. That was his alone.'_"

"Thank you," I gasp, "Jesus, stupid book's not making any sense."

"Then stop reading."

Taking his advice, I stuff the book back into my jeans.

"I win," Mikey states.

"No, it was a tie, man!" Carl yells, rushing over. He looks between him, Penelope and Ron incredulously. "You guys saw it, right?"

Ron is chewing a twizzler and Penelope laughs. Mikey looks at me for back-up but I have none so I say, "Sorry, man," so Mikey relents and Carl snatches his cards from his hands, shaking his head and smirking competitively. _Poor Mikey, _I think, _always at the bottom of the food-chain._

Carl glances at me. His eyebrow is cocked so I return the gesture, and he chuckles, shuffles a new deck, and bites his lip. I get that feeling like I do when he does this so I pull at my beanie, which is actually his hat, and hide under it.

Ron yells, "Hey, Sam!" and then the kid is running over to us.

"Sam, don't run," Jessie calls just as the boy dodges around Mrs. Neudermyer while she wonders past talking about a pasta maker. He's holding a small, white, circular container in his hand and tells me it's a stamp, and I find it fascinating. Sam is laughing at me when I tell him it's, "_So_ cool."

"Want one?"

"_Totally, _man."

Sam carefully presses the cartridge to the back of my right hand. I look at it, smiling, and then _not _smiling.

It's a large red _A_.

I swallow and my head swims again.

"Oliver?" someone asks me.

I snap out of my stupor, almost, mumbling, "Look," to the closest person to me. Carl. "A, for Alexandria," I say, reassuring myself more than anything. I smile widely but it hurts.

"Me too," Carl tells me, not smiling. I look at the back of his hand and scowl-grin.

"That's... _awesome. _A for awesome."

"Yeah," Carl is telling me, reassuring me, too. He's rubbing my back and I think I'm crying but I can't tell because my breath isn't still enough. "Yeah it is. Hey. Shh. You're okay."

"Yep." I stagger over to the others and show them, too. "Guys, look it!"

Penelope smiles, showing me her own identical brand.

"We're Alexandrian's."

"We're Alexandrians!" they all cheer.

I'm grinning. They are, for a second, but then they aren't. I touch my fingers to my cheeks and they're wet.

"Oops," I say, giggling.

"Oliver," Carl says.

"I'm good, man, I'm good," I insist.

Deanna walks past.

"Oh, ma'am?"

She stops and smiles at me, "Yes, Oliver. How can I help you?"

"Where's your bathroom?" I ask, dry-faced and straight-backed now. I have to focus so she can't tell I'm a little hammered. Still, she places her hand on my back and gestures towards the staircase.

"Third door on the left. Can't miss it."

"Thanks," I say as I go, waving someone's hands away when they try to help me. There isn't anyone upstairs, which is good, and it's quiet. The noise downstairs dulls the further I go. The second door on the right has a bed, so I leave, and find the _real _second door on the right. Opposite right. _Why is left right in Deanna's house? That's not right. Or, left._

"Whatever," I complain, stumbling inside. I grip the sink and blink, then sway to the toilet. Peeing is difficult. The edge of Carl's hat is getting in the way of my eyes. I have to put my head back and look down to I make absolutely sure that I don't miss.

Is it just me who shivers when I pee? I always do. It's weird.

"Whatever," I mumble again, giggling now. "Shh, Oliver. Don't miss. Don't miss."

While the toilet flushes, I wash my hands four times and use the tap to drink a million gallons. That's what you do, right? When you want to get sober. You drink water, not beer. When I lean up, something moves in the corner of my vision through the window, outside, overlooking the street. Carol. She walks in the shadows, casual, discreet and hidden. She left early. I assume she's going back to the house but she turns right instead of left, cutting across the pond behind the infirmary. The first house is the other way.

I can't see her anymore, but I can see who is following her now.

Sam.

I get a bad feeling. I don't like it at all. Quickly, I rush out of the bathroom and hit the carpet when I trip over a door stop. But I'm up again, totally incognito, sober-Oliver, strolling down the staircase and towards the door and slipping out of it without more than an absent-minded glance in my direction.

* * *

**Notes**

I watched a Buzzfeed video a few weeks ago about pee shivers, and I wrote that part literally seconds after. Go impulse writing! XD

Just in case anyone felt a little weirded out, Oliver kissing her cheek was completely innocent. He and her have always been close like that and it's never been romantic in any way, and Penelope's reaction wasn't exactly for the reason you all might be thinking. :)

Also, the wise men thing, if you remember all the way back in chapter 7 of the first story, Oliver recites it in his head when Carl is talking to Carol, he didn't remember where he'd read it, and so I guess Penelope must have said it to him once :)

Did anyone else see in this episode that Judith got her cups back! But again, they weren't red like in the Prison. But ah, she looked so adorable in Jessie's arms chewing on the plastic cup. NYAHAHAH! I was like, aww, her dreams have come true!

I'm sorry this was so long, it kind of had to be for what happens in the next chapter. Tell me what you thought xx I love hearing from you all x

As always,  
Happy reading :_)_


	14. Forget, Part 2: The Bogeyman

**BloodGutsandChocolatePudding **Ahahaha, thank you xx

**DarthGranola **Thank you xx

**The Flash Fanatic **Thank you, they think _you're _awesome too! xx

* * *

**"Monster" by Imagine Dragons**

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

The Armoury.

That's where Carol went, and that's where Sam followed her, and that's where I followed them both. Carol gets in through the window, and Sam goes to climb in after her, but I stop him. In silence, I tackle him, cover his mouth, and drag him across the street.

His legs flail, and he's pretty strong for his size, I'll give him that, but then again I'm sure this would be easier if I hadn't had all the beer. Still, I manage to get him away and set him down in front of a tree by the lake, in cover. When he sees it's me, he relaxes somewhat, frowning because he's confused. Adrenaline makes me see sharper, think clearer, focussing that numb swimmy feeling in my head to clarity, not entirely, but enough to understand what's going on.

He tries to say my name but I cover his mouth and pin him to the tree. This scares him. This scares _me. _I realise I have to speak, and I realise he does, too, so I let go of him slowly, putting a finger between our mouths to make absolutely sure he won't cry out for help. He doesn't.

"I went after her," he says frantically, "I thought she'd make cookies."

I know I need to speak but I don't.

"Your mom," Sam whispers, innocent, "I think she's stealing."

_Fuck,_ I think. _FuckFuckFuck._

Pieces of the jigsaw fit together, all of a sudden, and I go very still. My mouth is dry. My gut is twisting. I know what Carol is doing. I know what she _would _do. And I know what I need to do to protect her.

"You want cookies?" I ask, excited and upbeat. "I can ask her to make more, if you want. You can have a whole batch to yourself."

He is smiling and nodding and I go cold all over.

"You want that?" I ask.

"Yes," he says. "I mean, yes please."

"Cool," I say, dry now. "But, you gotta promise you won't tell anyone that Carol went in there."

Sam pouts. . .

"I'd have to tell my mom. I mean, I tell my mom everything."

"No."

My smile drops, suddenly, and along with that my jaw turns to rock. My stare is blank. I can feel it. It's the kind of stare that scares me if I look at myself in the mirror for too long. But now Sam is realising it. That I am a titan. Not _just Oliver_ anymore. The boy who has asthma and who skateboards and has a boyfriend and wouldn't hurt a fly. Now he's getting a clue that it's an illusion. Now he's getting a clue that I can take hold of his throat and snap it in two if I wanted.

But I don't want to.

I don't.

He just can't know this.

"You won't tell," I warn him. "You won't tell anyone. Especially not your mom."

When I step closer, Sam steps back, hits the tree, and is trapped there.

"If you do. Bad things will happen."

Even in the dark, I see the colour drain from his face. . .

"W-what kind of bad things?" he asks shakily.

I feel sick.

"_Bad _things," I answer. "Bad things that only happen to boys who don't keep secrets. So you won't tell. If you tell, one day you'll wake up someplace you've never been before. You won't be tucked up warm in your comforter."

"Where will I be?"

"Outside Alexandria," I whisper. "Far away. So far you won't know which way the walls are anymore. You'll be tied to a tree, strung up by your hands. And you'll scream and scream. And _nobody_ will come to save you."

His eyes are wide.

"But something will hear you," I whisper, my voice sharp and serrated. "The monsters. They'll come for you. The monsters out there. And you won't be able to run."

I swallow. Have to. Think I blew it. No, I didn't. Sam is trembling. Trembling so hard the tree is dropping its apples.

"They will find you and eat you up all while you're still alive. All while you can still _feel it_. All while you look into their rotten eyes and watch them rip you limb from limb. And then, after, nobody will ever know what happened to you. You'll just be one of _them_, and you'll never come home again."

I have to stop now.

Stop or I'll keel over.

My smile is as forced as it was that terrible day at the grove.

"Or, you can promise not to ever tell anyone what you saw tonight. Forget. All of it. And then nothing bad will happen to you because nothing bad happens to boys who keep secrets. And, you'll get cookies. _Lots_ of cookies."

Sam is catatonic.

I smile, say, "I think I know what you should do."

* * *

Sam went back to the party. I wanted to go with him but I told him to go ahead, and when he was gone, I think yacked across somebody's driveway. I don't remember much after that but I don't think the memory gap lasted long. Because now I'm lying on my back on a grass patch, holding on to the curb tightly so I won't float away when gravity forgets about me.

I think I've been crying. I think I still am. My breaths are shallow and shaky and blubbery. My head feels empty and cold, and my knees are up, I think. I have to twist my hips to reach Carl's hat, which had fallen off; hence the cold scalp. I put it back on over my face, blacking out the streaky stars. I don't know what's wrong with me. I can't tell if I want to throw up for the beer or because I'm a monster. When I was a kid, Patrick always told me that the bogeyman would come and get me if I made him mad. Up until I was nine I couldn't sleep with more than my head above the covers, and even after that, even now, I get uncomfortable sleeping with arms or legs sticking out of the bed. But my bogeyman wasn't real. My bogeyman was just a cruel joke.

But for Sam?

I just became his bogeyman.

"I don't wanna be the bogeyman," I sob, clutching my face under the Stetson. "_Idon'twannabethebogeyman. Idon'tIdon'tIdon't._"

"Carl?"

My start is so hard I wind myself, swivelling over onto my stomach to see. Carol is stood across the street with a small sack behind her back, I think. I don't know. Shit, I do. And I know what's inside it, too.

"Oliver," she says, relieved. She frowns. "What're you doing?"

I scowl at her.

"Come on, we should go back to the par—"

"Are you kidding me?"

She is silent, staring down at me.

"What am _I_ doing? What the fuck are _you _doing?"

"You saw."

"_No, _I didn't," I hiss, pushing up and staggering towards her. The anger makes me sweat. "But Sam did."

Her expression drops.

"Yeah," I snarl.

"We have to find him."

"No!" My voice is like venom. "I already _did._ I just scared the living shit out of him just to make sure he wouldn't tell. Fuck, I don't even know what you were doing, and I still did it."

She looks confused, and then not confused, and she sighs. She's waiting for me to calm down but when I don't, she says, "Thank you, Oliver. I would've done the same thing."

"I know!"

Carol flinches.

"That's why I did it," I growl, "because of _you!_"

She's going to tell me something but I don't let her.

"Why'd you sneak out?" I snap, lurching for the sack but she's quick enough to dodge my hands. I stagger to the asphalt at her feet and she tries to help me up but – "I don't want your help!"

She says nothing.

"Why?" I spit. "Why would you leave us again? Why would you leave _me_ again?!" I don't let her explain herself. "I can play possum, too!" I yell, smacking her hands away when she reaches out to me. "I can pretend I'm dead and harmless. I can spring up at any moment and kill the people who're helping us. _Saving_ us..."

All of a sudden I am hurting badly and I want her to hurt, too, and I've never wanted someone to hurt like me before.

"You're not supposed to keep secrets!" I scream.

She tries desperately to shush me, telling me, "I can't. I can't tell you what I was doing, Oli—"

"I don't _want_ to know!"

She steps back totally shocked, her breath fast and her shoulders up high.

"Oliver," she whispers, "why are you so angry?"

I have to pace around her a few times before I can tell her.

"We're supposed to be living here. We're supposed to be making this work. Settling. Not... _this._ You aren't supposed to lie to me." I grimace and ball my hands into my fringe. "Fuck, the window. It was today, wasn't it, that's why you didn't want me to go with you? I made it harder for you? But you worked around me, right? You unlocked the window? _God,_ you're not supposed to keep stuff like this from us. From _me!_ We're..." _gonna ruin everything._ "You're..."_ gonna get yourself hurt._ "I'm..." _not gonna be able to come back from this if we lose this place too! _"If..." _I lose you!_ "They..." _can't be bad people!_ "Because. . . Because _we are!_"

"Oliver," Carol stops me. "Have you been drinking?"

"No," I lie. My head hurts and my chest is aching. "You're not supposed to pretend, and _kid_ yourself that you're happy here."

"That's not true. Oliver, pl—"

"You're not supposed threaten little kids."

"Oliver." She's saying my name like she's losing control of it, like it's something vicious in her hands that she doesn't know what to do with. "Oliver. Stop."

"You're not supposed to refuse to talk. You're not supposed to be afraid of everything. You're not supposed to let little girls kill little girls! You're not supposed to be messed up! Or watch a man get his head chopped off! Or, hold his daughter's hand right before you let her get shot in the face – N-no. No! Get the fuck off me!"

She does, giving up trying to settle me, and I'm crying, heaving every word.

"You're not supposed to lock your own parents in their bedroom! You're not supposed to let your brother get sick! Or watch your whole family die!"

I don't know why it takes me this long to realise I'm not even talking to her.

"You're not supposed to bury them," I scream in her face. "_All of them!_ Everyone! Over and over and over and over and over and ov-"

"Stop it!" she yelps, and in the same moment, slaps me across the face. The snap of skin on skin —palm colliding with cheek— shatters through Alexandria and the night is cracked right through the middle. I can still hear it. The _clap! _Is ringing through the whole cul-de-sac. Five seconds go by. Ten. A minute. I'm still cowering, clutching my face in silence. The shock of it has frayed my sentence, scattered it away like birds.

Finally, I bring my eyes back up to her. My eyes are wet. Hers too. She looks horrified, both hands over her mouth until she pulls her right hand away, looking at it and closing it like she isn't sure it belongs to her, like she's only just realised what happened, like someone else had done it and she was just watching from the side-lines.

She's waiting for me to retaliate, hit her back —like Ed. I stare at her with wide eyes and gritted teeth, panting and devastated. Under my palm my cheek burns. I let go slowly, staring, and Carol is inhaling and bracing and then I fall into her arms.

Gasping, Carol staggers back a few steps but catches us, and she's holding me, shushing my mutterings and kissing the top of my head while I hiccup into her chest.

"I'm sorry," I sob. "I'm sorry."

Carol is telling me, "No," and other things but I can't hear her over my crying. She's taking us back to the house. I can't walk on my own. When I try to I trip over onto my hands and knees. Eventually, we make it to the second house. Carol sets me on the couch and I spend a few minutes sobbing into my hands. I can hear her in the kitchen, and then a few minutes later she comes back over and sits beside me. I'm lead down, I realise, because my top half dips down. "Sit up," she tells me. I shake my head and frown into the cushion. "Oliver, come on."

"My arms. They're not working."

Carol sighs. "That's why you don't steal alcohol, sunshine."

"I didn't. It was..." A weird deep-set best friend thing kicks in and I stop talking. "Okay, fine," I mumble instead, trying to smile. "I did."

"Did Carl have anything?" she asks, placing his hat beside her. I shake my head truthfully. "Good," she says, rubbing her eyes. "That's good."

"Carl's good," I correct her, pointing a finger and wondering what it's doing there, between us, wiggling away. "Carl's... _awesome. _Carl's great. A great, awesome... _sexy_ dude."

"Sure, Oliver." She takes my hand and tucks my finger back against my palm, placing it carefully back in my lap. "Carl can tell you how much of a fool you are when you feel this in the morning."

I hum, giggle, and then there is something smooth and hot in my hands. Steam fills my nostrils and I grimace down at a dark brown potion.

"It'll help you wake up in the morning," Carol tells me.

I frown sceptically and tell it, "Smells bad."

Impatiently, Carol lifts it to my mouth and says, "Smells of _coffee_."

Into the mug, I mumble, "Smells of coffee smells of bad."

"Drink, Oliver."

I do. One sip and I spit it back into the mug. Carol doesn't let me put it down so I try again, more successfully. Sip after sip gets easier until she can trust me to hold it and drink by myself. Carol sits quietly beside me, looking tired and guilty and stressed with her head in her hands and deep sighs coming in and out of her all over the place.

I rub her back with my free hand and she says, "Thanks, sweetie."

The sack is gone now. My stomach flips. I finish my coffee, then stand up, blinking.

"You goin' to bed?"

I nod, arms out and aimed at the staircase by the front door. Carol follows me, a hand on my shoulder to steady me. I close my eyes for a second and then I'm collapsing against the wall and giggling.

"Jesus, Oliver!"

She helps me back up. I giggle worse. Giggles fill me like the bubbles in the beer. Spilling over my chest. I hug Carol and hold on to her until she gently pushes me to hold myself up. Carefully, I touch her cheeks, tell her, "Whatever it was, tonight, I won't tell either."

"We're all doing what we need to," she says tentatively.

"I trust you," I smile, even though my eyes are wet and my cheek is stinging. "You always know what you're doing."

"Oliver," she says then. "You can't believe that, not all the time. You're not a child anymore. I'm not gonna tell you some story to make you feel better. It can't work like that anymore."

"Okay."

"Oliver, I mean it. You can't just agree with everything I say. I could be wrong. I _am_ wrong sometimes. You can't just go along with it just 'cause you trust me."

Again, I touch her cheeks with my fingertips, but this time I don't say anything.

"What's going on up there?" she asks curiously. "Right now. What're you thinking?"

"That my cheek still hurts."

Her eyebrows arch. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that."

"It's okay," I mumble, even though it wasn't. "You woke me up. You snapped me out of it."

She sighs guiltily.

"Okay," I say, focussing. "What am I thinking? I'm thinking, right now, that you're thinking I'm just a drunk kid."

"You are."

"Sure," I shrug, smiling despite not feeling happy. "But I'm also thinking you're afraid."

Her face relaxes like she's giving up.

I say, "Not afraid like the claustrophobic kind, but the worried kind. Worried about this place. About letting people get too close. Letting yourself get attached, to us. To me. You said it before; you don't wanna just watch. I know that you're afraid of it. Of watching us die like you have everyone else. Like you have your little girl."

Carol is staring and I'm thinking I've maybe said too much – not filtered like I usually do. I'm about to apologise but Carol helps me upstairs.

"I..." I don't mean to sway slightly. "I can do it."

"Oliver, you can barely stand straight."

I giggle at her. "But, I'm _not_ straight, remember?"

Carol sighs incredulously, "Can definitely say your jokes're worse when you're drunk."

I giggle again and say, "Thanks, I think."

"Watch your step."

"Carol?"

"Hmm?"

She's gotten me inside the bedroom and I'm sitting on the single bed. This room only has one.

The.

Whole.

Room.

Is.

Spinning.

"I'm so swimmy."

"I know."

"_So, so, so _swimmy, Carol."

She sighs.

"What you did. I get it," I tell her, serious, and then I remember that I don't need to whisper because no one else is in here. Carol taps my wrists so I hold them above my head and let her slip my cardigan and shirt off, grinning when she realises one of them's not mine; she doesn't mind as much as I briefly think she will. She pulls a too-big, white shirt on (one of Abraham's, I think) over my head and leaves it there, and while I help kick off my jeans, I say, through Abraham's shirt, "And I don't want you to feel bad. You didn't want to be mean."

She uncovers my face and I feel my hair fly all over the place.

Her eyes are wet.

Mine, too.

"But sometimes you have to," I tell her, "but just sometimes."

* * *

**Carl's POV**

I'm eating potato puffs with a tiny plastic sword and I decide I want to show Oliver, only I can't find him. In my search, that quiet woman from the other day stops me to ask, "What's your favourite meal, honey?"

I'm like a sailor looking for a lighthouse so I turn from the sea of Alexandrians to the middle-aged woman in front of me. Her skin is brown and her hair is neat and curly and dark brown. She's wearing a fancy, orange, bead necklace and a flowy dress to match it.

"Huh?"

"Your favourite meal. I'd love to cook it for you sometime. I'm doing it for all the new arrivals."

"Oh. Um. Thanks. Well, I like corn. Pretty much anything with that in it, I guess."

"Great. Oh, what about your... friend? That other boy? Oliver, I think?" Again, I look around the dining room, mumbling something about chocolate when she says, "Ah, I'll find him eventually."

When she leaves, I go on searching.

"Didn't he go to the bathroom?" Penelope asks.

"Yeah," I say. "But Reg just came from up there."

After another full circuit of the Monroe household, I come back to them and try not to look too worried. I can't find Sam or Daryl or Carol or Eric or Aaron either. But then again I don't think the latter two or Daryl even came tonight.

"Want help looking, man?" Ron offers.

I shake my head. "No. We'll probably be back in a minute."

"Okay, we'll keep an eye out."

"You don't need to worry," Mikey reassures me. "It's safe here."

"It's just, it's not like him to go without telling someone," I lie, because of course it is, idiot.

"Well, I guess he doesn't need to tell anyone."

"I know," I say to Penelope, trying not to sound defensive.

She looks anxious.

"What?" I ask.

"We were drinking," she confesses. I know this so I don't say anything. She adds, "It was his first time so it hit him harder than he was expecting."

I can't ignore the bad feeling in my stomach while I break away from them and wonder into the hallway, and then I freeze in my tracks when I see my father. . .

It's just a peck.

A quick press and release to Jessie's cheek.

So why did I dodge out of their view? Why did I dart behind the wall before they saw me? Why does my chest suddenly sting? Why do I suddenly want to drag my dad away from her by his hair?

Then I hear the tap of her flats coming towards me, and I practically launch from the wall I'm hiding behind and disappearing into the crowd of Alexandrians. Once again, I'm back with the others. My heart drops more when Oliver still isn't here.

"Sorry, man," Ron says, looking more worried about me than anything else. I try to relax, still flustered from what I'd just witnessed between our parents. Very suddenly, I feel lost without Oliver. I want to confide in him. I want to hold his hand and let it make me feel better.

"I think I'm gonna go—"

I'm interrupted by Sasha's shout. . . "_That's_ what you _worry_ about?!"

We all startle. She's in the living room. Now, everything is silent. Sasha stares at the quiet woman and winces, and then she runs away, hurrying out of the house. I go after her, telling the others, "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Okay," someone says. "Come back if you don't find him."

Outside on the street, I spot Sasha marching, so I break into a run to catch up with her.

"Sasha!" I call out. "Wait up."

She slows, wiping her eyes and frowning. "Carl. W-what're you doing out here? You should go back to the party."

"I'm heading back, see if Oliver and Carol're there."

"Oh, um," she nods, "no, sorry. I haven't seen him."

I knew that already so I just nod.

"C'mon," she says, "let's get back."

Inside the first house we find nobody. While Sasha goes to bed, I go next door to see if he's there. Tonight it's cold and I hug myself to keep warm. The lights inside the second house are on, and I see Carol when I go in. She's in the kitchen, leant over the counter drinking a cup of something hot and dark.

"Hey," I say, "you left the party."

"Have y—"

"He's asleep," she tells me, "upstairs."

"Why'd he leave?" I ask, bracing myself against the counter opposite her.

"Got his hands on some beer," she tells me. "Got a little swimmy. Or, that's what he kept callin' it."

I laugh.

"G'on up. You can sleep here tonight. I'll tell your dad."

"Okay – wait, why wouldn't I sleep here tonight anyway?"

"That's gonna be the sleeping arrangements." She lists off on her fingers. "Oliver, Tara, Noah, Eugene, Rosita, Abraham, and me are here. Then you, Judith, your dad, Michonne, Maggie, Glenn, Gabriel, Daryl, and Sasha are over in the first house. We can come and go and we might – what?"

My mouth is open and the complaint comes out before I can stop it: "That's so unfair."

"It's not like we're separating you in different Counties."

"_Feels_ like it," I say, again, not intending to.

"You're next door. You'll still see each other every day."

I'm fumbling on the spot, sulking, and then nodding and heading upstairs before she decides I can't stay after all. I think back to the last time I slept without Oliver and I realise it was when I thought he was dead.

Inside bedrooms I find unpacked duffel bags by people who have adopted their new rooms already, and then, finally, I find one bedroom with a sleeping lump sprawled across the bed, and on the wardrobe, sits a neat pile of clothes and _August _sat on top. Quietly, I pull off all my clothes bar a shirt and my underwear, and while I climb under the comforter, the sleeping lump rouses.

"Just me."

Oliver groans softly, pushing the blanket away from his face to see me.

"Go back to sleep," I whisper.

"I, um. I wasn't asleep."

"Right."

"Shh, we... we totally don't have to worry about that," he mumbles, like I'm missing something complicated. He giggles. "C'mere, man, don't – don't even worry. Just... just, be here, yeah?"

"Alright, alright. I'm here," I grin, our bodies fitting with my front to his back. "Night."

Oliver's thumb is moving across my inner forearm, poking over the duvet, until he decides it's in the way and pulls his arms out altogether; better reach. He hums the tune to Clair De Lune and drags his fingers up and down my whole arm.

"_Hmm, hm, do do do, do, hm hm hm hm, hmm, do, do do do..._"

Even drunk, and humming, Oliver's voice is smooth as silk.

"So, how much did Penelope give you to drink?"

"How'd you know she got me the beer?"

Still giggling.

Still playing with my arm.

"She told me."

"Oh, thought I'd told you somehow."

"Weirdo," I mess, and Oliver peers over his shoulder at me. I can hear his grin but not see it in the dark.

"Wanna fool around?"

Immediately I feel my cheeks singe the pillow. I rub them, tell him, "Yes."

Then Oliver is rolling over and kissing me. His kisses are clumsy and messy and too fast to keep up with, and then I'm laughing my ass off because he's holding me still while he kisses every part of my face – other than my lips. I'm sneering and trying to keep quiet and thinking: _You are such a dork. You are suck a freaking dork_. But still, we find no problem in getting into it. The problem is how unsteady he is. The only thing keeping him from collapsing into me are my arms propped up against his shoulders like pillars, which leaves me with no free hands. He does his best with his own, but he's so disorientated he has trouble getting them to work, and eventually I give up and push him back.

"You're way too drunk for this."

His complaint is a long frustrated whine.

"Oliver,_ ugh_ – hey. Oh. _Oh._" The temptation of a second attempt is too enticing to pass up, and I'm wriggling under him and his hands are wondering, and missing, and try as I might, I can't help but laugh at him. "Oh, geez. Oliver, what're you doing? Gosh, _ah!_ Oliver,_ ew_. Come on, man, that's my eyebrow!"

He's kissing them both now, alternating between them for which one he decides to play with, making hilarious _nom-nom-nom_ noises while he does. I laugh even more, but when his tongue becomes involved I let out another grunt and push him away more forcefully. He collapses to his face with a muffled moan and when I get worried he'll suffocate, I pull him over onto his side so he's facing away.

He groans.

"Jesus," I grimace, wiping my face on the mattress. "Gross." His moan slurs into the mattress again and I reach over him and tug his chin up so he can breathe properly. My eyebrows are still damp. "You're... really, really drunk."

"I'm not that drunk."

I narrow my eyes and sigh.

"C'mon. Just..." His hand comes up, waving lazily over his shoulder to the rest of him. "Do whatever. I totally don't mind. I'm – I'm really... swimming. So... whatever works for you, man."

I laugh into his shoulder-blade, shaking my head.

"No, I'm cool."

He reaches over his shoulder, finding my hair and gently tangling his fingers into it. I grin against his spine, kissing a disk and then the one under it. He rolls over, tucking himself close into a hug that's going to give him a dead-arm soon.

"Night," I tell him.

He nods, and a few minutes later we're both still awake, so, suddenly, he asks me, "Are you sure?" like he doesn't quite believe it. I laugh.

"Yeah, Oliver. You're drunk."

With a grumble, he nods again and pushes his forehead into my collarbones.

"Gentleman," he says like it's an insult, even though he holds me a little tighter. A few more minutes pass and I'm starting to get tired, but again, Oliver speaks up. . . "I think Penelope's afraid of me."

"Oh."

"When we were out of the porch, I kissed her but she got real... tense, like I'd tried to hurt her or something."

I blink a few times and say, "Oh," again.

"I think someone hurt her, before she got here," Oliver goes on, slurring. "I think that's why she won't talk about it."

"Makes sense," I say, "I mean, it took you a while to tell me about what happened."

Oliver's face splits then, for a moment, and I realise I just brought it all back at once.

"I'm not sure I've ever been so afraid of someone," he tells me. His voice is hollow, blank. "And I've been afraid of a lot of people. I didn't know being _that_ afraid was real. I didn't... _understand,_ what he was gonna do, until he was already—"

"Stop."

My grip around him tightens and I bury my face into his chest.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring it up."

He's trembling and I know I have to let go of him. I know he doesn't want me so close. Not right now. Right now he's still inside that utility room. Right now, he's still inside his nightmares.

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay," he's sat up, head hugged in his arms, breath fast and shallow. "Just, give me a minute."

I do. This is not only so terrible because he is still traumatised by it, but because I am, too. We're riding through the terrorism, sharing it together. For a few minutes, we can hardly look at each other, like we're looking in a mirror rather than another person. But finally it passes. Oliver is led on his stomach and I am on my back. I'm looking at the back of his skull and behind him, our little fingers are locked.

Just those fingers.

That's enough right now.

"I just..." he says, starts over. His voice is croaky and foggy. "I want her to know, that she's not alone in it. I don't think I would've gotten through it, after, if you and Carol and the girls weren't there."

"I wasn't there," I say, my voice catching.

"You were," Oliver whispers. "You are, now."

His pinkie tightens around mine and I reciprocate.

"Jus' give her time," I say finally. "Whether she tells you what happened or not, it's your job to be there for her. Not drunk. Just, her friend."

Oliver nods like he's taking instructions.

I still have a question, and I know I shouldn't ask it but I can't help myself. . .

"You kissed her?"

"She gave me a cookie," he says like it's obvious.

"On the..."

"Cheek."

"Cheek. Oh. Yeah. Cool."

I can hear his smile. "You know I'm not talking about the cookie, right?"

I roll my eyes and say, "Whatever."

"That okay with you?"

"_Yes,_" I say, flushed. "It didn't sound so clingy in my head, alright?"

"Wait, are you jealous?"

A pause.

"You _are._"

"Shut up," I growl, then I grin. "I could be, if you like that kinda thing."

That earns me a giggle; it's lazy and drunk and he's a massive dork.

"It's okay," he says. "I'm good."

"Cool."

He calls me cute and the pillow burst into flames.

I decide in the same moment to tell him, "I saw Dad kiss Jessie's cheek tonight."

"Oh. That's... nice."

I frown, reminding myself that right now isn't the best time to bring this up. For one, I'm not sure Oliver can properly focus on anything I'm telling him, and two – "I'm tired."

"Is that why you came home?" He didn't mean to call it that. "Here. Came here. Because you're tired?"

"No," I shake my head. "I couldn't find you. Got worried."

He calls me cute again. The whole house goes up.

"Why'd you come back?" I ask. He moans. I frown. "Was it too many people?"

"Yes."

He's lying.

"What's up?" I ask curiously.

Oliver shakes his head.

"Oliver?"

"I wasn't supposed to be the bogeyman."

I stare, then mumble, "What?"

He's taken his arm back, and is now rubbing at the _A _on his hand. He sounds distressed, and when I'm about to ask why, he suddenly says, "I think I ruined everything."

"What?" again, less mumble, more rasp.

"Don't make me tell you, please." It least this is what I think he says, but I can't be sure. He's too drunk. So I let it go, at least until he's sober.

"I won't, Oliver."

"Thank you."

His hand comes back, and this time it takes my whole hand. For a long time, it's so quiet I can only hear Oliver's eyelashes when they blink against the pillow, and then. . .

"Carl?"

"Yeah."

"Nothing," he whispers, squeezing. "I just wanted to make sure you were there."

* * *

"Have the boys come through here?"

"They're asleep."

Not true. I'm awake. Woke up because Dad forgot how to shut the front door without slamming it. I also need to go to the bathroom, so I go do that. Tara came back with him, too, but she doesn't notice me while she goes into her new bedroom. When I'm done, I stand by the staircase and taking a seat at the first step, forehead against banister.

"Did you do it?"

"Yeah," Carol sighs.

"Good," Dad says. "We'll stash 'em tomorrow."

"Not so loud," Carol whispers. "They're only upstairs."

I get a feeling this has something to do with what Oliver didn't want to tell me.

"Coffee or tea?"

"I'm okay, thanks," Dad declines. "How long've they been out?"

"Carl got worried when Oliver left. Came by a while after we got in."

Dad sounds like he almost falls over. "You took Oliver with you?"

"No. He followed me." I strain my ears to hear. "Didn't see what I was doin' though. But, I think he figured it out... wasn't too happy, but, I asked him not to tell anyone."

Sometimes I can't decide if Oliver's loyalty is something I find attractive in him or infuriating. Both, I suppose. Though, sometimes Oliver's loyalty is nothing short of pornographic.

"Guess you're not so invisible to him, huh?" Dad says.

"He's pretty good at being invisible, too."

Dad groans, sounding like he's still not very comfortable about something.

"He trusts me. And you," Carol says, sounding like she's not all that comfortable about something either. "He probably won't even remember by tomorrow."

"Why?"

"Got his hands on some beer. He'll feel pretty rough in the morning."

"Wow." Surprisingly, he doesn't sound mad. He sounds relieved, and maybe even a little impressed. "Carl, too?"

"No. He seemed alright."

"I guess it's not somethin' we can avoid. They're teenagers. They're gonna do stupid stuff. At least they're here instead of out there."

Carol sighs her agreement.

"You know?" Dad says, his voice low and quiet and soft. "I was worried they'd snuck off together tonight."

"No," Carol reassures him. "Wouldn't put it past them though."

"They already snuck out," Dad admits. "Over the wall. Ran into 'em yesterday."

"You did?"

He groans.

"And that's okay with you?" Carol asks, a little incredulous.

"Me and Lori weren't much older when we met—" He goes on talking about how they met, how there wasn't much that would stop them from being together, that he would chew through walls to get to her sometimes. Carol tells him that Oliver talked to her at the hospital about it; us being together, and I get so embarrassed I'm tempted to yell down for them to shut up. It was bad enough knowing Carol knew we were thinking about doing that stuff, now Dad, too? Jesus Christ. Then, finally, he says, "Guess, at least they can't get pregnant."

"That what happened to you?" Carol asks.

Dad groans again, then says, "Best thing we ever did."

At this, I have to wipe my eyes, and then when that doesn't work I hold my whole face in both hands and cry silently until I can stop again. I hate crying. Sometimes I think I could cry so hard I'd flood a place, which is why I hardly ever do. I've learned that it's easiest not to cry when you could cry at any moment. But moments like this, when the worst day of my life is smacked right across my face, it's impossible not to turn into a tsunami.

"They're a good kids," Carol says. "Men."

"Hmm," Dad says a little hoarsely. "Did you tell 'em they'll be sleeping apart?"

"Told Carl."

"How'd he take it?"

"How do you think?"

Dad sighs exasperatedly.

"He's not a child," Carol tells him empathetically. "Didn't make a fuss. Ah, they'll get used to it eventually. They just won't like it much. Anyway, with their track record they'll probably find a way around it."

"They're so... _attached._"

"Rick," Carol says.

"I just mean... they can't be so invested in each other."

"Rick," Carol says. "You know that's not gonna happen."

I imagine Dad narrowing his eyes at her.

"They're two boys who care about each other, a lot," Carol says, "and they've managed to keep it that way through everything. Nower days, that's not something you have any say about. Sorry."

"How long?"

This one question makes me shiver.

"If they break up, so be it," Carol says. "They're teenagers. It happens."

"I'm not talking about breaking up."

Oh.

He means if one of us dies.

"That happens, too," Carol says softly.

"Carl," Dad begins coarsely. "I don't want anything to break him."

I get it now; why my dad has been acting so strange around us lately. He's not just being a protective parent. He's trying to prepare us.

"It'd break Oliver, too, if Carl—"

"No," Dad cuts her off quickly.

Carol is quiet for a moment, until she says, "Let them be."

Eventually, Dad says, "Alright," and then, "Still, they're gonna get used to sleepin' apart."

"You wanna go up and tell your son to sleep next door? 'Cause I'm not gonna do it."

"Could you take her for me a minute?"

He's handing Judith over and I'm cursing under my breath and sprinting back into Oliver's bedroom. I shut the door as quietly as I can, which sounds like an explosion, and Dad is coming after me. For a terrible moment, I completely panic, until I throw myself at the bed and hide under the comforter, my face in his spine when Dad walks in a second later.

"Carl."

I don't come up. My eyes scrunch into skin.

"Carl."

I hear him step towards the bed, and instinctively, without even meaning to, my grip around Oliver tightens and my shoulders bunch up.

Dad stops, sighs.

"Son, I know you're awake."

"Just for tonight," I blurt at Oliver's spine. "Please."

". . .Alright," he says, and my shoulders come down again. Even more when he steps towards the door. "Just tonight. Starting tomorrow you're sleeping in the first house. No arguing."

"Yes, sir."

"Come feed Judith in the morning."

"Okay."

"And don't skip school."

I just nod.

"Night, Carl."

Then he's going downstairs, leaving us be.

* * *

**Notes**

Drunk Oliver was literally the fun-est thing I've ever written.

The whole eyebrow was inspired by a very dear friend of mine. She gets a little _face enthusiastic _when she's under the influence XD In my case, I was Carl, she was Oliver. . . XD

I wasn't gonna have Carl catch Rick and Jessie, but there's nothing saying that he didn't, and I'm trying to build angst between him and Rick to lead up to the last few chapters of season 5 :)

I thought that Carol and Oliver needed this chapter. I know she hit him, and I know that it was completely not something that Carol would ever want to do. But I just wanted Oliver to get into her memories of Ed like that. How her husband would get angry at her, and I wanted to show how she would have fought back to him now after everything she's been through, and she was still afraid, but then Oliver realised why, and she realised that he isn't Ed, and they could move on from it. Pretty deep, and I know it's only fanfiction, but blah. It was fun.

That slap part was totally inspired by Billy Elliot. I've said this before and I'll say it again, that movie is stunning.

* * *

**Bonus Chapter**

Drunk Oliver

A loud bang downstairs, jolts me awake.

"Abe." Rosita's grunting, but laughing, scuffing up the staircase. "Abraham!"

"Jesus, Abe," Tara says, too, groggy and going to help bring the intoxicated man to his bedroom. "Here." A grunt, and I'm questioning Deanna's judgement in supplying her party with so much alcohol. "Watch the table."

I smirk into my pillow, which is actually Oliver's right hand. I'm listening to him breathe; a pass-time of mine that I've never told anybody. It's nice; listening to him, just breathing, just being, just existing, just Olivering. He's wheezing. It occurs to me that he didn't take his inhaler before. I'll remind him to when he wakes up. Usually he'll wake up if his asthma becomes too bad so right now I'll leave him be.

Rosita and Abraham's bedroom door slams. Oliver startles. I take this as my opportunity; grabbing Ventolin from the bedside table. Oliver shushes me like it's me who's the one making all the noise, and I realise he's still drunk.

"Oliver," I whisper, "here, take it."

He starts coughing, lifting an arm. I have to hold his wrist to keep it still. In the dark, I barely manage to see him try to use the medication, his muscles sluggish and lazy and he starts falling asleep just holding it in his mouth.

"You gotta take it," I whisper, brushing his fringe out of his eyes.

"Can't."

"Why?"

"Arm won't work."

"Good thing you only gotta use your thumb, right?" He tries, but fails. I snicker and pull him to sit up. "Give it here, moron." He's able to sit up for about two seconds before he flops forward against my collarbones. "Oliver, come on. You gotta breathe."

"Nothing's working." He starts prodding his cheeks, pulling at his lips, holding on to me with his free hand so he doesn't collapse. "I can't... feel my face."

"Sit up," I insist, cupping his cheek to hold him up. He frowns, gargles, coughs, then lets me put his inhaler to his lips. His lungs sound like a quiet chainsaw.

I spray. Oliver doesn't take it I and instead a misty cloud of medication saturates up and away over my fingers. I try again, timing it so that he _has_ to breath it in. This happens twice until I decide to wait for it to kick in, and eventually the wheezing is gone and Oliver climbs out of bed.

"What're you doing?" I ask tiredly, lying back down and tossing his inhaler on the bedside table.

"Too hot."

His clothes seem to disappear. He's flinging them off across the room and I grimace when his underwear lands on my shoulder. I throw them back and tell him, "Hey, put them back on."

"Do you think we can go get some chocolate?"

"No."

"No, no, listen," Oliver insists, knelt in front of me now. He's totally naked. I frown and cross my eyes to look at his intrusive finger, pressed to my mouth. "Shh. I have this idea. It's _totally_ great, man."

"Ol—"

He shushes me, then shushes himself. When he lets go of his mouth, he says, "Look, we can find Olivia and give her comics. Then she'll let us have some chocolate."

"We can't bribe Olivia with comics."

Oliver's eyebrows come up, like he hadn't thought of that. "_I_ would take comic bribery."

"Oliver," I say, laughing now. "Put your underwear back on and sleep."

He's nodding, but he doesn't do as I ask. . .

"Look what I can do."

Rolling my eyes, I watch through the dark while he stands in the middle of the room. I'm not going to pretend that I'm actually looking at his face for most of what he shows me, because when he does a cartwheel it gives me quite an extensive view of a few brilliant body parts that Oliver possesses. But inevitably, he loses balance, crumpling to the floor, legs flailing. I laugh and climb out of bed, helping him sit up. He'd landed face-first, and now he's clutching his nose and grimacing.

"Ow."

I grin, and he grins back, and then his palm comes up to my face and pushes me to look away.

"Fuck you," he says, and at first I'm kind of extremely offended, but then he keeps talking: "with your_ face._ So... _anatomically correct._ Aesthetically pleasing."

"You're so drunk."

"You make me feel like... I'm _exploding _rainbows, all the time. It's..." He lets out a long sigh that turns to a hiccup. "...It's the best, man. _You're_ the best. You're _my_ best. My best friend. My besty. Besty-boo in the apocalypse where everything sucks except for you."

_I love you,_ I think.

_So._

_Much._

He nods, like he'd heard me, like: _Duh, man. I know. Pfft._ Then says, "I'ma try again."

"What? Wait. No."

He ignores me. Though, just before he's about to throw himself up-side down again, he suddenly stops, and then he retches.

"Shit."

I grab him, shoving and dragging him out into the bathroom across the hall. He collapses to the toilet and projectile vomited into the porcelain.

"_Bruuurkk – rhuuughhh – gruaaaugh!_"

"What is going on in here?"

I startle, currently bent over my boyfriend holding back his hair and palming his stomach. It's Carol, stood in the doorway. I let go of him but he doesn't stop throwing up, so I stand in front of him; a small attempt to conceal his nakedness, though, at this undignified angle there isn't much she and I cannot see.

"It's not what it looks like," I say, "I mean, it is, but..."

She grabs a towel and puts it over his shoulders, stopping him when he tries to use it to wipe his mouth. He's still vomiting. I get him a tissue instead. He throws up again. It has chocolate chip chunks in it. I have to look away for a moment. When the nausea subsides, we help him sit back against the wall and grab another towel to cover between his legs. He makes no attempt to keep it there.

While Carol stays with him, I get a glass of water and some aspirin, and when I come back I hear, to my mortification, Oliver say to her, "I'm sorry you had to see my weiner," and when he looks up at me he grins goofily and says, "but I'm _not _sorry you had to."

I can't imagine how awkward my expression must look to Carol. She looks like she's totally done with this entire conversation, but in a way like when she's on her own she's not going to stop grinning about it for years.

"Let's get him to bed," she suggests.

Oliver attempts to keep hold of the towel while we go next door but the moment we get into the bedroom he lets go of it, and us, and throws himself across the bed, face buried into pillow, butt exposed. I roll my eyes, thinking: _Holy Jesus Christ on a bike._

"Make sure he stays in the recovery position," Carol says.

"What's the recovery position?"

"You know when he had the asthma attack in McDonald?" she asks. "The way I led him on the floor. That's the recovery position."

"Alcohol sucks."

She smiles. "Night, Carl."

"Night."

When she's gone I grab Oliver's boxers. They have small X-Men logos dotted all over them.

"Oliver, can you put them on?"

He doesn't respond. Sighing, I grab his ankle and slip it through, but he fights me, wriggling his foot and pulling it away and growling at me to quit it. I give up, throwing the underwear on top of the dresser and climbing into bed with him. It's a few minutes later that I realise Oliver's mind is wondering, because there's quite a distinctive hard lump in the sheet.

I laugh at it and when he notices he rolls over onto his side and groans.

"Try to think of something else," I whisper. "Walkers and soccer, and... books."

"I have a massive crush on the character I'm reading about though," he slurs.

"Grace, or Christopher?"

"Both."

"At the same time?"

"Not helping, man."

I scoff. "Then think of something else."

"I'm not thinking about them anyway."

"Then get to thinking about walkers."

"But I don't wanna think about the walkers. I wanna think about you. I really like thinking about you." And then he's rolled over on top of me, hugging me. He makes a wear attempt to fool around again but gets too drowsy, and I chuckle into the top of his head and tell him he smells of puke and he groans embarrassedly, and we're both acutely aware of what is still digging into my leg. I hug him back and grin at the ceiling, running my fingers through his hair, figuring that the recovery position still counts seeing as he's on his front.

"Go to sleep."

"Okay."

* * *

**Notes**

**Preview: Oliver faces the music, and the hormones. **

As always,  
Happy reading :_)_


	15. Forget, Part 3: Sempiternal

**DarthGranola **Ahaha! Thank youuuuu!

**ILoveGoten1999 **Thank you!

**Guest **Yeah, Rick really might be going at this a little badly, haha, you'll see the result soon I guess haha thank you!

**BloodGutsandChocolatePudding **Thank you haha and I actually wrote that _"sexy man" _thing as a joke for myself, but it was too good not to include lol xD

* * *

**Friendly warning: Mild nsfw but like nothing smutty, just so you know :3**

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

Waking up this morning is _not _fun.

My brain has become a throb party and my pillow turned out to be Carl's stomach. "_Ow,_" has also turned into the only word I can audibly comprehend. Fresh air makes me dizzy and exposure to sunlight has me convinced I was bitten by a vampire.

Finally, I manage to tell this to Carl. . .

"I think I got bit." When his face drops, I add, "by a vampire."

"Oh," he tells me. "No, it's just a hangover."

"Nope. Definitely dying."

"Oliver," he says, and I pick my head up from the mattress that I've been frowning in to for the last twenty minutes. "You are not dying."

"I am _never_ drinking again."

I'd woken up naked this morning. When I asked Carl why, he told me everything. The cartwheel and the yacking (which explains the taste in my mouth) and how Carol saw... _far. Too. Much. _I don't think I'll ever live down the weiner jokes.

"Hey," I get curious, "did we..."

"Oh," Carl says. "No... uh. You wanted to, but you were drunk."

"I don't think I would've minded."

Carl is shrugging and I am smiling at him, looking up after a second. . .

"Thanks, man."

"For what, not getting any ass?"

"_Yes,_" I say.

Carl shrugs. "It's your body."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I'm not gonna do stuff to it," Carl goes on. "Not unless you're sober."

I swallow and say, "Okay."

His grin makes my knees weak, or maybe that's the hangover.

"Thanks though," I tell him, meaning it. "You know, for not getting any ass."

He grins and kisses my forehead, then tells me, "You smell like vomit."

I bury my head under the blankets. Carl comes under, despite what he'd said, and kisses the top of my head. Then he climbs out of the bed.

"Where're you going?" I ask.

"Next door." He pulls on clothes and shakes out his hair. "Said I'd look after Judy."

"Your dad can't do it?" I ask, wiping the sleep from my eye and drool from my mouth. It's no surprise Carl didn't want to do anything last night.

**_You're a mess._**

"He's on duty," Carl says. "Plus, I kinda made a deal with him."

"Oh?"

"I'll tell you later. I think you should feel better first."

"Bad news?"

"Kinda. Not life threatening," he says. "I'll tell you later. I'll bring Judy back over here and we'll hang out before school."

He stops at the bedroom door.

"I love you."

Then he's gone and hurrying down the staircase. My grin is twisting all over my pillow, melting into the fabric. He hasn't told me that since – I don't even remember. Not here in Alexandria, at least. Or rather, not when I've heard it. I didn't even realise until now.

The front door shuts, and even though he won't hear it, I whisper back, "I love you, too."

* * *

I'm allowed a lie in for a while before Carol comes in to wake me. She brings me water and tells me to come down and have breakfast soon, all while I nod and try to hide the fact that I am still stark naked under here. My fringe is sticky. Beer, I hope... _sincerely._

Carol says, "Got a little carried away last night, huh?"

I stop touching my hair.

"Have a shower," she says, "I'll see you downstairs. Gotta talk to you. Drink your water."

And then I'm left to shower. For a little while I'm sure I'll yack, and I very nearly do, but after a while of warm water beating my spine and face, I start to feel a little better, though, I get to thinking, too. But that part isn't so nice. I start to remember. Remember so much I realise what Carol is going to talk to me about.

I leave the bathroom feeling worse; the fragmented memories of terrorising Sam and screaming at the top of my lungs and the sting of Carol's palm against my cheek invading my mind, sticking there like mud.

"I'm sorry."

This is what I say when I turn around the banister, dressed now. Carol looks up at me. I step past the living room and dining room and meet her in the kitchen area, strangling my red, grey and orange beanie in my hands. She sighs, putting down her magazine.

"I'm, so, so, sorry," I say. "I didn't mean what I said."

Carol sighs. . .

"Yes you did."

"I... I know," I confess. "But I didn't mean it at you."

"I know."

"Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?"

She winces like my question has hurt her, made her ache. . .

"No," she answers. "It's about Sam. He's gonna be pretty terrified of you."

"I was brutal."

"I need to know what you told him."

"His worst nightmare," I say glumly. "Said it'd happen to him if he told anyone what he saw you doing. It was terrible. _I_ was terrible."

"Well, you didn't hurt him. I don't think he'll tell."

"What if he does?" I ask. "Nobody'll believe me. It's the weirdo's word against the little boy who tells his mom everything. I left the party alone, people would've seen."

"You aren't a... Look, you left the party around the same time I did. I'll vouch for you. They'll believe me." She gives me a stern frown so I settle.

"I think I'm just gonna stay here today."

"No. Don't avoid everyone. You'll look more suspicious."

"I'll look worse if I actually have to face him. And if he told Ron..." I shake my head. "I'm _totally _getting my ass kicked."

If I am a titan, Ron is a werewolf; when the full moon shines, his true form shows. . . or at least this is what I had a dream about this morning. He _mauled _me. Tore me in a million.

"He won't do that."

Panic is rising. I've screwed up and it's my fault.

"Oliver."

My eyes snap back at her.

"Tell Carl what happened."

"What? But—"

"Shh."

"I can't just—"

"Hush."

"He can't—"

"Tell him."

"But—"

"Oliver."

I frown. "_Carol._.."

"Here." My beanie is tugged out of my hands and she pushes it over my head, neatening my hair around it. I sigh; feeling better. "Talk to Carl," she instructs. "Tell him what happened. It'll make you both feel better. Then go to school. Learn things. Hang out with your friends. Walk Bean or something. Be yourself. Okay?"

Her instructions are like being lowered into a pit of walkers and getting told to relax, but I nod anyway; tying the rope myself because I believe her completely. . .

"Okay."

She packs up her things. "I have to go. I'll be back later. Probably a lot later. Mrs. Neudermyer most likely won't shut up about that..."

"Pasta maker," we say at the same time.

"I swear, if someone doesn't find her one..." She pauses. "Well, I guess I won't do anything at all." Is it bad that I'm slightly relieved? She walks to the door, lingering there a moment to look back. "Thank you."

I nod. "I did what I had to do."

"It wasn't your fault," she says quietly, arching her eyebrows. "What happened last night, the girls, your brother. Your parents. Everyone else. It's not on you. You gotta know that."

My head turns away, tilting up so the wet doesn't show.

"I'll see you later, sweetie."

"Yes, ma'am."

* * *

I did what I was told.

"Whatever happens, we'll get through it."

That's what he said. That was all he had to say. After school, we hang out at Ron's. Carl, Mikey, Ron and Penelope are playing a platform videogame where the characters look like freaky puppet people. I am sat on the bed, back to the headrest, shoulder to shoulder with Enid. I feel a lot better now that my hangover is worn off. My nose is in _August _and Enid's nose is in _Wolf Fight!_. She's holding an empty cup to her mouth, tapping her bottom row of teeth against the crystal –cups at Ron's are made of _crystal_.

_Tink.  
Tink, tink..._

"Do you want me to refill it?" I ask her. The _tink_ing is making my bellybutton tingle and I'd like that to stop now, thank you. "I'm gonna get you a refill," I say even though she hasn't replied. She doesn't now, either, just hands the cup over without looking at me. "Anybody else want anything?"

Mikey: "Nah."

Penelope: "OJ."

Carl: "I'm good."

Ron: "Water, thanks."

"'Kay." I turn and point at Enid. "Apple."

I win a _Nobel Prize _because for the first time in my life I make Enid smile.

Downstairs, I pour two orange juices, a water and an apple juice. Balancing them all in my hands, I turn from the sink and walk into a walker. I leap back and it yelps.

_Wait, _I think, _walkers don't yelp._

"Mika!" I growl, stutter, then say, "Sam, I mean. Jesus, man."

"Hello."

I frown.

"I wanted to ask you," he's saying, pointing and taking two cups from me. "Why did you cry about the stamp?"

"Huh?"

"Last night."

"I didn't," I lie. In truth, I spent half my shower trying to rub it off my skin. I swear, the ink is supernatural. I watch him. He's frowning; mimicking me. I stop frowning. He stops too._ Mika, Mika, Mika, Mika._

"Who's Mika?" Sam asks.

I wonder if I was talking aloud or if he just remembers it from a few seconds ago.

"Nobody," I lie curtly. "What do you want, Sam?"

"I live here."

I'm frowning again.

"I didn't tell," Sam explains. "I swear to God."

My frown wavers enough to nod and say, "Thanks, man."

He nods, smiling. "Also, I'm helping you take drinks up."

We go to the staircase.

"So, you're not afraid of me?" I ask quietly.

"No."

"Why?"

He shrugs and makes an _I dunno_ noise, then says, "Used to it."

"What?"

Sam fumbles, smiles, then points at Ron's room down the landing. "I've got an older brother."

"Me, too," I say. It stings. Enid is watching us from the bed. "I-I mean, I used to."

"He died?"

"Yeah."

"Sucks."

I don't say anything.

"Hey, can you and Carol make more cookies soon?"

I frown, a little taken off guard. "Uh, I guess. Wait a while."

Sam smiles. "Okay."

We serve the drinks and I take my seat back beside Enid, and she passes me a note that says _'thanks'_. I write on the back: _'It's cool'. _Unlike usual, Sam stays with us. That is, until he complains he's bored. Everyone rolls their eyes.

_How can he be bored?_ I think. _No one gets to be bored anymore. We're all too busy trying not to die._

Regardless, we decide to go to the lake. We actually spend most of the afternoon there. Enid, Ron and Sam leave together a little while before sunset. Carl's head is in my lap and I'm playing with his hair. He'd brought his hat and it's on his stomach now. Mikey and Penelope are arguing over the most effective way to melt a CD to blow bubbles with the plastic. It sounds like a very big fire hazard.

"I'm totally trying that later."

Apparently, Mikey isn't afraid of flames.

"Hey."

Noah walks around the gazebo.

"Hey," Carl says. "How was the run?"

"Good, man. Oh, hey, Nell, you'll never believe what we found," Noah says. He leans on the gazebo pillar beside her. Noah's a good leaner. Odd as that sounds, it's true. Leaning and slouching just suits him. Penelope waits with a grin and he cocks an eyebrow. "Pasta maker for Mrs. Neudermyer."

"No way," she laughs.

"She cried," Noah tells us. "Think I still got some snot on my collar."

Penelope's laughing her ass off. Mikey's laughing at this and me and Carl are having a thumb war.

"What else did you get?" I pipe up curiously.

"More supplies, mostly," Noah elaborates. "Didn't find much food, but we're not running low yet."

I want to ask if they want more hands out there but I stop at the first few syllables. Instead I ask, "What's up?" Because it's rare he spends time with us. With anybody, really. Except our own group.

Noah turns to Penelope again.

"Reg, uh, he asked me to come find you. Says he's got the notebooks for you, something about: _'He'll expand the wall, you'll expand the library.'_?"

Penelope is blushing. It must be an inside joke she and Reg share together. "I'll go find him."

"I'll go with you," Noah offers, "going that way anyway."

"Cool."

Bean follows them, shaking his coat right next to us so that he's all damp. It's a few minutes until me and Carl realise that Mikey is sinking through the earth. We look at each other, then look back to him, then look at each other again. Carl stretches his lip and I shrug.

He takes his chances: "Mikey, everything okay?"

The sulk slips off his face and he smiles. He says, "Last night, after you guys left, Nell saw that Noah was alone so they talked for the rest of the night. Guess they're... pretty close now, hm."

I see the green gew oozing.

"Guess," Carl says.

"I'm gonna go home," Mikey tells us. "Later, guys."

"Penelope's house, right?" Carl asks.

"Yeah. I'll try the CD trick when you get there."

"Cool."

When Mikey's gone, Carl looks at me and I sit up and say, "That was kinda awkward."

"Daryl's right," Carl says, "it _is_ a damned romance novel around here."

I laugh. "You think he has a crush on her?"

"Can't you tell?" Carl asks. "It's obvious."

"Oh."

Carl snickers and says, "You're totally clueless."

"And you aren't?"

He pushes my shoulder, then says, "Hey, did Penelope give your sweater back yet?"

"No," I grin. I'm still wearing her cardigan, too. "Pretty sure she never will either."

Carl chuckles, and we both lie back on the ground and look up through the tree branches. They look like veins on the back of a hand. When I look at Carl's face the shadows make him look like he's been all cracked up, like a glass window.

"Sam," he says when he catches me looking. "He was okay earlier."

"We talked," I say. "He said he'd keep quiet."

"He wasn't afraid?"

"Weird, huh?"

"Yeah, actually."

It's only now, with him saying so, too, that I take note of it.

"Woah," Carl says, eyes up. "Look."

I do and the sky is a Bierstadt sunset, who's an old artist Carl told me about once. Carl said, _It's like the guy used gold and blood in his paint, like it was real, poured right into the sun._

"The world's glowing," he whispers. Watching Carl get emotional over colour is like looking at porn, I think.

"Woah," I say, too, and Carl touches my hand and tangles our fingers. I look back to him — his broken window glowing shadow-ness. . .

"We can have a movie marathon here sometime."

I giggle.

"Hey," he frowns, and he's laughing now, too, "I'm serious."

"Sorry. Say it again. I'll be serious."

He rolls his eyes, looks up, squinting. "Oliver, do you want to have a Lord of the Rings marathon with me?"

"Yes, Carl," I answer like he'd asked me on a date. "Totally."

I get butterflies. Even now. So many butterflies.

"Today?"

I shrug, "There's a DVD player at Ron's. We can watch a movie later with everyone."

"No," Carl says suddenly, "no I want it to be just us, like you said."

"All that cliché trash then, huh?"

He nods.

"And, that other stuff, too?"

Again, he nods, "Lots of other stuff."

I don't even realise I'm pulling him closer until he's pressed to my chest, and we're kissing, under the cover of a glowing sunset and an apple tree. We start to tangle ourselves; arms and fingers and legs and chests and breaths and mouths. I'm thinking he's something secret, all wrapped up, and as pretty as his secret outside is I'm also thinking of all the secret insides of him, too.

When our kiss is broken, our breaths are fast and sweat is dampening our hairlines. We stare like we're starving. His eyes, now, are two black marbles. His jaw is fixed. He looks scary, almost. Dangerous. But that secret kind where my mind is spinning all over the place again. He's not speaking but I know what he's thinking and, right now, it has _nothing_ to do with Lord of the Rings.

"I think we should go back now," I tell him.

He's nodding frantically and we're both rushing to our feet, grabbing collars and pulling and trying to act inconspicuous and nonchalant but we're storming inside. Inside, my organs are churning themselves into an anxious mush. My gut is crumbling. My stomach is ringing itself out, stretching my throat. The walk back to the house is silent and we're not even looking at each other. Not even holding hands.

"Wait."

"What?"

"They're in there. The first and second house."

It's true. I can see lights, figures casting shadows in windows.

"Dammit."

Carl's face is flushed and his breath is still fast and. . . my brain is not working. I'm itching. Itching with an itch I can't scratch because I'm a teenage boy and this is the biggest itch in the world right now.

"Don't worry," he tells me, and then he's taking me across the street. "Aaron said most of the other houses here're empty."

We're on the back porch of the smallest house on our street. I heard nobody lives here because whoever did died on a run last month. Nobody wanted to take it after. Carl is at the window, peaking through. I laugh nervously and try not to think about how badly I'm still itching.

"See anything?"

He squints, shakes his head. "Just a bunch of bugs."

"What?" I look, too, and he's right. Whoever lived here was a little obsessed. An insect collection covers the wall behind the couch. Beetles and butterflies and dragonflies and moths; all dead and every colour and shape. Some are beautiful and some look plane ugly. "Oh, _Jesus._"

"I'm not sure I can do this with all those eyes staring at us," Carl tells me, and then I don't know what I do but he is looking at me and saying, "No, wait, yes I can."

I scoff, push his arm, say, "Door."

"No," Carl says. "Penelope said the keys're kept in Aaron's house. We'll have to steal them."

"Carl."

"What?" he says. Itchy, too.

"How do you think they got into our attic?"

His expression widens, and my stomach churns brilliantly.

"They keep spare keys around the houses," I explain. "They just don't tell anyone."

"How'd you know?"

I shrug, "Enid. She knows everything."

"I didn't see you talking to her."

"We were passing notes. Started in class but it kinda kept going at Ron's, too."

"Oh."

We search, and finally I notice the old boot that's a little too perfectly neglected under the step. I shake it up-side down until the set of small silver keys drop out into my palm, along with a fat black spider. I shriek and shake my arm. Carl laughs. It's coming at me, so I leap around it and grab for the only thing I know won't eat me (Carl) and the spider scurries away under the decking. Carl pushes me off and I hug myself, emasculated.

"Fucking hate spiders," I grumble.

He grabs the keys and tries all five in the back door, until finally it's open and we're inside. I lock it behind us. It's dim, but the left-over shine from dusk still lets us see around without using a light yet.

"Hello?" I call out. Carl smacks my arm. "Ouch!"

"_Shh!_"

"What? I don't wanna freak anyone out."

"You just broke into their house. They'd already be freaking out."

"Oh, yeah."

He snickers. "Dork."

"No one lives here anyway."

"Doesn't look it."

I pick up a glasses case. Open it and see the black circular pair inside. They look like Patrick's glasses, a little, but smaller. I snap the case closed and push it away, look around. There are less bugs than we thought. So far there are only a few small sculptures, but luckily the only real ones are on that wall. Everything else is neat and relatively clean bar the thin layer of dust. Unlived in, but only recently, and a scope around the house tells us that we are definitely alone. Carl crosses the second floor hallway and takes my hand, pulling me away from the curtained window that I was peeking out of.

"What is it?"

I point, and he looks over my shoulder through the part of curtain I'd pulled back.

"What?"

"See there, between our houses, the wall?"

"Yeah."

"Your dad was there, this morning." I saw him while I was in the bathroom. "He was listening to something on the outside."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

Just then, Daryl leaves the first house and we both duck out of sight. Carl is stood over me slightly, breathing fast, and I look at him and let my eyes wonder through the undone collar of his shirt that gives me quite a large view down the front of his chest. I reach out and touch it. He acts like he doesn't notice and instead stands up to peek through the curtain again. His eyes follow the man. Mine, too, when I stand up. Daryl leans over the porch banister and smokes, but at least, now, he doesn't look quite so miserable. He was inside, after all.

"Clear?" I whisper.

Carl swallows, nods, says "Kinda déjà vu, right? Of the night at Grady?"

"Kinda," I swallow, because I really really hope so.

"Oliver?"

"Yes."

"Why are we whispering?"

I giggle, thinking, _Oh, geez. _Then, with his hand, I leave the curtain. There are only two bedrooms in this house and one of them only has a cot. The adult bedroom has a double bed and big painting of a snail shell opposite, but luckily this is the only insect up here. On a stand is a stereo and I switch it on. The electricity works in here. When I eject the disk, I read on it: _Mix. . . _The first song is smooth and quiet and hopelessly romantic. . .

* * *

**"Delicate" by Damien Rice**

* * *

_'We might kiss, when we are alone,  
__when nobody's watching,  
__we might take it home.  
__We might make out, when nobody's there.  
__It's not that we're scared,  
__it's just that it's delicate.'_

And it is.

So _so_ delicate.

I'm twirled around on the spot and pulled to the bed, laid along it, a pair of knees around my ribs. . .

"So," Carl says, "how do you wanna do this?"

I get the feeling he's already decided.

"Um..." Nervous, I pull at my beanie, then wiggle out from under him and circle around the room. "Just a sec."

He watches me close the door. I pick up neglected clothes and trash, then flip on the light, then the lamp, and then the desk lamp, too. Carl switches them off behind me and when I've ran out of buttons to press he sits back on the bed, tucking his foot under him, pushing his hat on his head. I pick up a pen, looking around and make sure I haven't missed anything.

He's grinning.

"It's good to talk," is my reply, finally _–idiota._ My eyes snap around the room; him, the window, the lightbulb, the wardrobe. I go on, "you know, before, uh. Before..."

"Before you screw me."

I was crouched to pick up a piece of paper but I stumble, catching myself with an embarrassing grunt when I hit my head. Mute, I stare at him, mouth wide and stammering.

"Or, you know, I screw you," Carl adds causally.

"Err..."

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Just, think I'd like us to call it something else."

We debate over the preferred term for a minute. Some are sappy and ridiculous and others sound _hazardous, _and a few are so explicit I hop on one foot, and then there's one that just sounds like an insult —that one, apparently, Carl heard from Abraham.

"Oliver," Carl says finally, smiling like he's watching me win a World's Biggest Dork award. "I mean, how do _you_ wanna do this? Like, who goes first?"

_Since when has Carl Grimes been so damned blunt?!  
**Since always.**_

"I don't think it's a case of going first, though," I say, thinking aloud. "We're both gonna be, um, you know, having sex—" This term won final vote. "—so... I guess it's what you're comfortable with. I'm okay, erm, you know, either way."

Carl is watching me like he's trying hard not to reach out and touch a painting. I swallow and remember where I'm going with this. . .

"You gotta be okay with it, too. Say, if, you know, you don't like it or whatever." This is probably tedious to him now. He takes my wrist and pulls me to sit beside him. The mattress bounces. I'm smiling, trying not to look too goofy with my under-bite and my unruly hair and my awkwardness, but it's all still bothering me, even though I know he doesn't care. I swallow. "No means no, you know?"

"That's a lot of no's."

I nod, because it's the worst thing in the world when somebody ignores one.

"Yes," I answer.

And he answers back, "Yes."

_Oh boy, _I think, and I shake my head –not really sure what I mean by it. When I look down at my lap I'm not really sure what I mean by that either, but he seems to take it as a suggestion because he pushes himself onto me, a knee coming up around my hipbone. He hesitates when I startle.

"You okay?" he asks anxiously.

"Yes," I answer, and I'm smiling. "Yes. Totally. Just, trying to figure out what to do with my hands." I never know. I think my hands aren't even mine sometimes. Sometimes I forget I even have hands and Carl will put them in the places they're supposed to go. Like now; he takes them both, placing one on his hip and the other on the crook of his neck.

"Here," he says softly. "Put them here, yeah?"

I smile, and he smiles, and when I say, "Yes," he climbs onto my lap. I push off his shoes and hat and he's leaning into me so lie down. The top of my head hands over the edge of the bed so I keep it up myself. Our hands are linked, all four of them, above my shoulders.

The next song comes on and it is kind of awful. . .

* * *

**"Spicks &amp; Specks" by The Bee Gees**

* * *

_'Where is the sun,  
that shone on my head?  
The sun in my life.  
It is dead.  
It is dead.'_

"Oh my God," I groan, "talk about a mood-kill."

Carl is laughing his ass off, and then he's kissing me, telling me, "Shh," and when I kiss him back we are frantic. So frantic that neither of us notice when I start to slip off the bed, until it's too late and gravity seizes us, pulling us to the carpet with a loud series of grunts and thumps and gasps and giggles.

"Ow!"

"_Agh._ Sorry, man."

Like with the song, I think the fall will be an awkward mood-kill, but maybe it works for him because Carl is climbing back onto my lap and we're taking off clothes like they're the worst creation since hydrogen blimps or asbestos, and we're kissing kissing kissing again with only my socks and beanie left attached to us, but they hardly matter. We're skin on skin. Everywhere touching everywhere. Every_thing_.

"No movie marathon today."

"No."

My beanie is off. His hair is damp and sweaty and I'm already a living flood.

"Not today."

His back is to the floor and I'm knelt over him, taking care of a few things, totally overdosing on testosterone. It's embarrassing, and there isn't nearly enough functioning thought process for very coherent sentences. The ones we do share are mumbled and rushed, because it doesn't matter that we've done almost everything else together that we know of because this is going to be a whole different thing completely. . .

"Carl, quit laughing at me. And, geez, quit looking."

"I can't help it."

"Just, gimme a sec."

"Okay, okay. I won't look, Oliver."

"Okay, think, uh. Uh. You, erm... you ready?"

"Totally."

"Totally," I reply.

He's grinning, whispering, "Totally," again while his fingers run across my jaw, thumb tugging at lower lip. I smile. He whispers, "Totally," _again_, nodding for me to go ahead. The carpet itches my palms and knees and I think I'm going to collapse before I even get anywhere. Jesus, my elbows are shaking.

"I'll just, um."

Why I am trying to narrate this aloud, I will never know, but I convince myself that every last butterfly downstairs is alive and bursting out of my own chest. . .

"I'll just—"

_. . . _

_Holy._

_Fucking._

_Shit._

_. . ._

I'm not sure what just happened to me but I'm pretty sure no living thing in the world has ever experienced it before. _I_ sure haven't. Never. Not once. I think I don't exist. I _forget. _I don't even breathe. Or, no, I do. I'm groaning, and moving without thinking about it. Jesus, he is, too. I think my body is on fire. I think I burst into flames. I think we both do. We're a human atomic bomb.

_kapow_

I look around for a mushroom cloud but I only see the red _A _on the back of my hand, tangled in his next to us. Carl tells me something, so I stop, cursing into the crook of his neck.

"Sorry," I gasp out, still feeling it, feeling everything. When he laughs, I think I'll pass out.

"You're good," he tells me, casual, even though his breath is heavier than mine and we're both trying to catch our breath and brains. "Jus', uh. Just be gentle. Keep being gentle."

"Totally," I mutter.

"Totally."

It's strange; the moment of losing our virginity is nothing like I thought it would be. I thought it would be like switching on a loud TV; something obvious. But it's subtle, sort of. Subtle like watching a sunset or like feeling an intense heat wave. Gradual, and then just really _really._ Then, when we get into it, every feeling violently throttling through my body is trying to kill me, all at once, but in the best way like I'm terminating right where I am in him, and when I see him I decide that I'll never grow tired of seeing him. I'll fall in love with him every day.

So, for a brilliant part of a brilliant evening (that really doesn't last for as long as it all sounds) we are a whole person. We are sempiternal.

* * *

**Notes**

Recognise the word from a certain chapter between imaginary!Lori and comaing!Oliver?

Okay, so I wasn't sure about this. It didn't really have a _smutty vibe_ while I wrote it, but I guess it's how you interpret it. Plus, I'm not exactly into Carl like a lot of most people reading this are, so there's that to take into account, too. Regardless, I hope it was okay. I'd love to hear your thoughts ^.~

Is anyone else noticing how much Oliver is sounding like Lizzy lately._ "__Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?" _and _"Sometimes you have to be mean. But just sometimes?" _and all that? x) At first it was accidental, but then I was like, fuck yeah, nostalgia and all that shit! I do hope it's not foreshadowing though... :S

As always,  
Happy reading :_)_


	16. Stealing the Constable's Son

**DarthGranola **Ah, thanks xx

**The Flash Fanatic **Thank you xx and yeah, I'm not exactly sure to be honest. I kinda left the "after" part to themselves. haha, though, I guess you'll find that out in a sec.

**Guest **Thank you xx

**ThatGenderfluidPerson **Okay, I just totally love your username. Ridiculously love it. Okay? Okay. Also, gosh, it seriously is so freaking satisfying to hear that the boy's story is helping people feel better about who they are, even if it's a little. It means the world to me. Also, yeah, I relate to you, I have VERY religious family too. The three I'm talking about being the three people that I'm going across seas to live with for two months soon. Which is terrifying, because they'd probably burn me at stake for writing this, and I'm gonna have to keep my gender and sexual equality beliefs to myself too, which sucks big time. Ah, you're so welcome. Thank you for enjoying them!

**ILoveGoten1999 **Haha, thank you sweets x

**Akiie/Rolo-chan **(I feel like I should start reminding you at the end of chapters to make sure you're not using your sister's account xD) It was Oliver who topped. It sort of ended up, to me, not really mattering who did, like you said. And your opinion intrigued me. So I did a little research, about bottomers being more submissive and vice versa, and what I found was that it isn't any set way or rule for every gay couple. There can be guys who are naturally more dominant and will rather bottom and every other variation, and to be honest I don't even think there _needs _to be a dominant and a submissive person in each relationship, which is what I've done with the boys. It all just depends on the guy. So, just because Carl bottomed, that time, it doesn't mean that he's more submissive. Neither does it mean Oliver wouldn't or would be, you know? But I understand where you're coming from x Maybe it's unrealistic, but hopefully it shouldn't really make any difference because the bedroom department of this story won't actually be gone into much detail about. Sorry for the confusion, haha, I just couldn't bring myself to go into anymore detail, because, like you said, they are only young teens. I'm actually glad you brought that particular subject up too! Over the months writing this, I've had so many mixed feelings on how long they should wait to lose their virginity together, and I spoke to a lot of people about it on here and on the other site and the results tipped (and crashed and burned) in the yes direction, which I was kind of not expecting. Yeah, I wanted them to wait until they were both at least a few years older. But it had been pointed out to me on a lot of occasions that Carl, in the comic, has already lost his virginity, so it became a worry to me that not letting the boys _have their way _with each other was going to get unrealistic soon. And, ah, yes, alas, I am splitting them up. But like Carol said, only next door! But I dunno, I kind of agree with Rick. As bad as it sounds, and Oliver would slap me upside my head for saying this, but I kind of want to see the boys developing more as characters, but _not _off of each other's backs. Sleeping apart was sort of the softest thing I could think of that wouldn't jeopardise their relationship. I mean, they'll still have sleep-overs and stuff! :) Thanks for the review, sorry for my reply being so long. It just kind of made me feel better to read that you felt it was too soon as well. As weird as that might sound coming from the writer, but yeah xx thank you! :) AND OMG I ALMOST FORGOT! Yes, I will do the comic suggestion, I freaking love your suggestions, they're always so helpful!

* * *

"**Enchanted" by Owl City  
**_thank you to that lovely **Guest** a while back. I didn't forget_

* * *

**Carl's POV**

"So, you thought you'd just tell me today?"

Oliver is mad.

"Today," he goes on. I glance up to the piece of foil he's tearing apart in his hands. "_Two_ days after this rule's already been made?"

"Yes," Carol answers him.

"Right..." He almost raises his voice, but his eyes catch mine and he realises it's a bad strategy. "So, why didn't you tell me two days ago?"

"Oliver," Carol frowns. "The first night, you were drunk. The second, you both were God knows where and I didn't see you until ten minutes ago."

We sort of lost track of time with each other. All. Freaking. Night. I'm surprised we didn't demolish the whole house. Anyway, afterwards, he looked at me and I looked at him, like that day he woke from his coma, seeing each other all over again. I asked, "What do we do now?" and Oliver shrugged and said, "I don't know. I guess we just... figure it out," just like he did after our first kiss, and we did figure it out, all of it, and the next thing we knew we were waking up in the empty house at noon the next day. I'd completely forgotten to tell him about the new sleeping arrangements.

"Now it's today," Carol goes on, "and I'm telling you."

Oliver tries not to roll his eyes, instead glares at me because I'm reading a comic rather than defending him. I ignore him. It's the next volume of _Wolf Fight!_ and it's pretty good. Plus, I've come to learn that it's best to keep my nose out of a passive aggressive battle between a De Luca a Peletier.

"Stop overreacting," Carol tells him. "We're just next door. No big deal."

Oliver rubs a palm over his face, stretching lips over teeth. "I don't like it," he mutters under his breath, earning a stern look from Carol. "I'm just saying."

"Well, I'm sure you'll adjust."

He inhales. . . "Always do, right?"

She smirks, despite his sarcasm.

* * *

We've been helping move Ron, Mikey, Enid and Penelope's things out of the attic and into Ron's house. Oliver is still sulking. The only thing that remotely cheers his mood is hearing that Mikey almost caught fire to the rug doing that CD trick yesterday. Part of his eyebrow is missing. It kind of looks cool, really.

"How come you guys missed it?"

"Yeah, we waited."

"You weren't at home when we went to get you."

Oliver and I look at each other at the same time, then them. . .

Me: "We were looking for firewood."  
Oliver: "We were doing homework."

Our eyes snap back to each other, then back to them again. . .

Me: "We were doing homework."  
Oliver: "We were looking for firewood."

Panicking, we glare at each other.

Me: "I mean..."  
Oliver: "We _were_ doing our homework..."  
Me: "_While,_ we were collecting the firewood?"

None of them look convinced. Ron, Mikey and Penelope are struggling to carry the CD player past the living room and because their backs are turned, Oliver punches my arm. I punch his back. Enid is stood to the side watching us, laughing on the inside, I'm sure, but on the outside she just rolls her eyes.

Once they set the player down in the cupboard, Penelope says, "I was hanging out with Noah."

"Oh?" I ask, desperate to change subject.

"We've been collecting candles, found a glass-picture-window-thing. For the church. It's not exactly the same, but it's something. Gabriel liked it."

"Cool."

Then Ron is stood on the dining room table.

"Err," Penelope says, "what are you doing?"

"So, I saw this painting in that book you gave me, Carl."

I perk up. "Michelangelo, or Da Vinci?"

"Michael."

"Angelo," I correct.

"Doesn't matter," Ron says.

I blink at him, completely offended. Oliver scoffs at me, but he's also wrestling Mikey into a headlock for some reason so I ignore him and leave them to it.

"That one painting he did," Ron says.

"He did a lot of paintings," I say, still offended. I secretly worship Michelangelo like Judith worships plastic cups. Michelangelo made art like Sasha can shoot a gun. Ron is struggling with a name so I help him: "Well, there's The Entombment, Domi Tondo, The Deluge. But he's better knows for his sculptures, in stone. Like the Bearded Slave and David and the Battle of the Centaurs. Oh, or the Crouching Boy. I love that one, it reminds me of Ol—"

I stop because they're all staring at me.

"Uh, I mean, nothing."

Oliver gives up trying to pin Mikey back and lets him steal his beanie. Now Oliver is looking at me and blushing, all flattered and bashful and I roll my eyes at him.

"I think this one was called the creation of Adam," Ron says. "I wanna recreate it. Penelope, take the photo?"

"Why?" she and I both ask at the same time.

"I just do," he insists, lying down on the table top and pushing the end chair away. Carl, lie here, under me on the floor, then reach up."

"Alright," I say, "but I'm not taking my clothes off."

Ron throws a coaster at my head and I duck, then crouch to lie on the floor, and while we reach to each other, the others, Enid not included, are giggling their asses off. As our fingers barely touch, and the second before the photo is going to be captured, of course, it is then that Mr. Anderson comes into the house. . .

Both Ron and I scramble to pick ourselves up, knocking over a chair in the process. Pete is staring at all six of us, a beer in his hand. I wonder if he might laugh but he doesn't.

"Go to school," he tells us.

We're all filing out of the house quickly.

"Ron, stay behind."

His breath catches. . . "Dad."

"Help me clean up," Pete answers, his voice low and quiet.

Ron stares at him, then at his beer, then nods. Quickly, and with a smile, he turns to the rest of us and says, "Uh, guys, I'll see you later."

In the span of less than a second, Mikey, Enid and Penelope are all staring at him like they're having a full conversation in their heads, like a telepathic chat room, but in the end, we all leave. Carl and I don't ask questions, even when we hear the shouting while we cross the street and head to school.

* * *

Ron missed every class and only showed up again afterwards. He was sat outside his house on the grass, tearing apart daises, and he didn't say anything and just stood up and handed Mikey a basketball. There is a hoop at the dead-end street beside his house so we play. Even while we do that, Carl and I can see that they're all talking in that way like they're in a mental group chat without saying anything aloud. Soon though, the game gets fun, and playing it feels more normal and laid back now, which, I'm not sure is good or bad really. Even Enid joins in today, along with a few other kids like the boy and the girl who are about eleven and thirteen —I think they're siblings but I don't know for sure.

Ron can't lift his arm, but he doesn't say why.

Miraculously, Sam still doesn't seem afraid of Oliver. Once or twice he even tackles Oliver for the ball. Finally, when it begins to roll into the evening we all head back. On the road, Oliver had gotten better at cooking (if you can count skinny hares and dogs and whatever else we could get our hands on as 'cooking') and he seems to trust himself enough to help make casserole. He earns himself a welt on his hand by accident. The food tastes good though, so that makes up for it. It reminds me of the prison; seeing him doing chores. The only thing missing is his brother, but I can't do anything about that. The food also has no people in it; Oliver checked. . . _several times._

While we eat, Oliver is very quiet. I am, too, especially when Rosita and Abraham go back to the second house to turn in tonight. Tara and Noah go next, then Eugene. Until it's just Carol who needs to go back. If she forgets about the sleeping arrangements, Oliver might get away with staying tonight, too. . .

Our hopes and dreams are crushed when Carol tells Oliver to come with her.

Fuck.

Oliver looks like he's hanging from a washing line. He gives me an odd look before he goes, but I catch it too late to understand what it means.

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

Noah and Tara are teasing me because I chose to sit on the inglenook instead of the couch. Plus, I may or may not still be sulking.

"Well," Noah mumbles, "as long as you're not chewing on the furniture or barking at people walking by, you can keep your nuts."

I grimace and try not to burst out laughing.

Tara says, "I'll make sure to walk and feed you every day, don't worry."

"Dork," I grumble.

Tara laughs, "Don't you mean _bark?_"

I stand up and walk away. "I'm going to bed. Can't handle all these terrible puns. Night, guys."

"Night," Tara grins.

"G'night, man," Noah says, yawning. "I'll try to be quiet when I go up."

Noah and I are sharing a room now (_wrong boy, _I keep thinking), since his has two beds. Carol is getting the room me and Carl slept in last night. Speaking of; she's coming down the staircase so I wait at the bottom for her to pass. She does, but she holds onto my shoulders so I decide to stay put.

"Anybody seen Daryl?"

"Over Aaron and Eric's," Tara says.

"Oh yeah."

Deanna gave him a job with helping Aaron on the scouting.

Carol looks at me.

"How'd it go, yesterday?" she asks quietly. "I never got to ask."

"Oh."

For a moment, I'm not entirely sure what she is talking about. The most significant thing I can think of yesterday was having so much sex I thought I'd died a few times, so. . .

"Err..."

"Sam."

My eyes are averted and my cheeks are on fire, but I look at her suddenly and deflate in relief. "Oh. Yeah. It was okay. He's not scared of me."

Carol furrows her eyebrows.

"But I don't think he'll tell. He, uh, kinda swore to God," I reassure her with a smile. "It's weird, huh?"

"Yeah. It is."

"Maybe I'm just not very scary."

"Oh, no, you're terrifying," she jokes, pointing at the scar across my lip and temple. "What with your war wounds. You look like a human Scar."

I frown, then ask, "From The Lion King?"

She nods.

"Thanks. _That's_ great," I say sarcastically. "I look like a cartoon lion. That's exactly the look I was going for."

She tilts her head and grins. "I thought Scar was great."

My eyes roll.

"Go to bed, Oliver."

I make it half way up the stairs before I ask her back. She stands under me, the banister between us. I get very quiet and ask her, "Do you ever, um, you know, think you see them? Sometimes. Mika and Lizzie, or, you know, the people you've lost? Like, in people's faces, or, I dunno. Do you wish they were there so much you can imagine they are? Not in a mad way—" _I hope. _"—just, in a nostalgic way?"

"I don't think so," she answers dubiously. "Why'd you ask?"

"I called Sam 'Mika' yesterday," I confess. "He snuck up on me, like she did once... I just, forgot, for a second. Um. I... I'm not crazy though. I swear."

"I know, Oliver," Carol says. She looks sad again, that secret type of sad like always. "And, no, and yes. I think about them, but, I guess I jus' don't let myself get any further."

I nod, thinking about the ways Carol and I have coped with their deaths. I cried, a lot, and sometimes spoke to them when no one else could hear me (sometimes when I didn't realise someone could). I let myself feel the hurt, because that's how I had to deal with it. I let myself mourn until I made room for the pain and adjusted to it. But Carol? She held back her tears, she kept herself busy, occupied, distracted... _numb._ She didn't and still doesn't let herself feel it, probably never will, not since Sophia.

I can't imagine ever being so strong.

"Go to bed, Oliver," she says again, gently and softly.

"Yes, ma'am."

There is this moment then. I'm on the second floor and I'm knelt by the banister. I know she's still stood under me and she knows I'm still up here, too, but we can't see each other. Then, so quiet I almost miss it over Tara and Noah's conversation, I swear I hear Carol whisper that she loves me. I hold my breath, count to four, and then I whisper it back to her.

* * *

I hate this.

I hate this with a passion.

I think whoever invented sleeping alone should shower in mud.

This isn't just about Carl, either. Jeez, I never thought I'd ever say this, even think this. Ever. But I miss sleeping in a cramped room, with elbows and foreheads and toes jabbing into my spine or arm or shin. Fuck, I even miss waking up suffocating with Abraham's foot in my face. I miss my family. I miss my crazy, dysfunctional, messed-up, walker slaying, unconventional and mostly unrelated family.

But, I mean, most of all, I miss him.

**_Listen to yourself! This isn't a real problem! You're not dead. Carl's not dead. The others aren't dead. Everyone is safe and sound and in their own beds, behind walls, behind more walls, big walls, finally. This is good. This is everything you've wanted since this whole mess started.  
_**_I know. I just don't see why I can't be safe and sound and in my own bed – with him.  
**You're so petty!  
**What? If I can't be cooped up uncomfortably with everyone else in the same room, then I should at least be able to have one other person here.  
**Noah's here.  
**That's not funny.  
**Quit being such a baby. Poor Noah's gotta put up with your sorry ass every night now, too.  
**Well, in case you hadn't noticed, it's only me and Carl who drew the short straw on this. Maggie and Glenn are together. Abraham and Rosita.  
**Yeah, **_**that _statistic is totally valid. You'll win all the court cases with that argument. _**

I'm getting more and more wound up by the second. Damn, stupid, teenage angst.

_I don't see why I can't just go over there with him.  
**Because, Oliver. We've been over this. Carol and Rick have noticed... They're not idiots.  
**So? What's Carl's and my romantic relationship to them?!  
**You can't just decide to steal the Constable's son and expect the said Constable not to get protective.  
**Being rebellious isn't the reason I want to see him. I mean, how the hell do they expect us to just start sleeping alone, now, after everything?!  
**Carol is your guardian now, so it's expected of you to stay in the same house as her, for now at least.  
**Yeah, for now.  
**Wait, what?  
**I'll just wait until they're asleep. Then I'll steal the Constable's son.  
**Wait. Just, think about this a second.**_

Roughly, I roll over and prod at my memory foam pillow. Jessie gave me one of hers after Rick told her I was asthmatic. Stupid memory foam. It's _so_ comfortable.

"Dammit."

All of a sudden my shoes are on my feet and my beanie is on my head and I have slipped out of the window, leaving a snoring Noah behind. My room is above the porch so I can climb over the roof.

**_Carl's isn't._**

I stop in my tracks, curse, then slap my hands over my mouth because Daryl could easily be next door cleaning his crossbow outside. I wait. Nothing. Just quiet. The air is chilled and smells of _cold; _metallic, almost. I hug myself and crouch, peeking over the edge of the roof to see the coast is clear. I hang over the empty porch and with one swing backwards, I drop and land silently on the grass in front of it.

Next door, I go around back and find his window. It's closed, and the curtain is drawn, and there's a sheer two-storey drop down that not even I could climb up, unless I've been bitten by a radioactive spider in the last twenty-four hours. Which I haven't.

I purse my lips as I think, then go on search for pebbles but find only a handful of dirt. I can't help but snicker at myself; this isn't exactly the cliché I had in mind. Regardless, I throw it all at his window. The dirt flicks and splats against glass and I have to rather gracelessly dodge out of the way when it all flies back down at me. A few bits get in my eye and I rub it and wince.

Light flickers on in the next room over and for a moment I panic, terrified I've gotten the wrong window. This could easily be Sasha's room. Or Rick's. . . Then, through one eye (since the other is watering too much), I see a pale, freckly, teenage face appear in the window I aimed at first. Carl Grimes. Constable's Kid. He pushes the curtain out of the way and frowns through the dark. . .

I wave like a lunatic.

He's somewhat shocked to see me, but he's at least grinning now, and then he's mouthing _'Oliver, what the Hell?'_ to me through the glass, but that could also just be, _'Colourful at a ball.' _

"Open the damn window, it's freezing."

He can't hear me, but he sees me bouncing on the spot so he opens up.

"Oh, Romeo, Romeo!" I break into whisper, rubbing at my eye and using my free hand to gesture up dramatically. After this long, I still remember Penelope's performance: I twirl on the spot and act out a swoon. "Where for _art _thou, Romeo? _Deny _thy father and refuse thy _name. _Or. . . 'something something' love." Okay, so I may have forgotten some things. "And I will no longer be. . . walkerbait."

"I'm not sure that's how the scene goes," Carl says.

"Whatever," I say, breaking character. My teeth are chattering but at least my eye isn't stinging now. Carl is grinning. . .

"Hey, you."

"Hey."

"You know this is Michonne's bedroom, right?"

I blink.

"Yeah, but she and Dad are at work," Carl explains. "I've kinda been fighting with myself not to come over yours for the past few hours."

"How come you're not being quiet?"

"'Cause no one's home."

"Oh."

"Well, like I said, Dad and Michonne're at work. And Maggie and Glenn're on a date, I think, or, somethin'."

"Probably a date. What about Sash and Gabe?"

"Sasha's in the guard tower and Gabriel's decided to sleep at his church."

"It's pretty much a full house over there," I explain, pointing next door. "Daryl not here?"

"I'm not sure where he is," Carl answers. "Probably with Aaron and Eric planning the scouting trip."

"Oh yeah," I say. "Heard about that."

We're making small talk so I stop and watch him.

"I might've missed you, you know, a little, maybe," he confesses.

"Me, too. A little."

"Maybe."

I laugh, shake my head, then tell him, "I can't even sleep without you, man."

Carl sighs, then checks around me. When I look, too, I see nothing. I do hear a walker on the other side of the wall opposite me. Carl hears it, too. It makes him uneasy. Me, too.

"How're we gonna do this?" he asks.

"Well, I'm freezing my balls off out here, so, I'd kinda like to come up now."

"Alright, Judy's asleep in Dad's room so we gotta be quiet, okay? The front door squeaks, too, and whenever she hears it she cries, so go to the living room window. I'll be there in a sec."

"Which one?"

He shakes his head incredulously.

"What?" I frown. "There's like six living room windows."

"The one left of the door."

"Which door?"

He scoffs.

"There's two," I defend myself.

"The one closest to the kitchen."

"Right. Window by that one."

"No - left window."

"Shut up, you know what I mean."

At the window on the left of the door closest to the kitchen, I wait, shaking my ass off, until I see a figure move through the darkness and stand before me. Carl pulls up the window slowly and carefully.

"How can I help you, young sir?"

"You can help me by letting me in," I reply, shivering so badly I can hardly talk. I forgot to put socks on and my T-shirt has short sleeves.

"Sorry," Carl says. "It's past curfew."

"There isn't a curfew."

"And you gotta pay a price for me to turn a blind eye at such rebellion."

"Carl," I moan impatiently, rolling my eyes and hugging myself tighter, "I'm so cold."

"Pay up then."

"With what?" I groan.

"It's been a whole day, Oliver. How the hell am I supposed to cope with that?"

_Oh._

I grin, catching on. . .

"Okay."

One kiss.

"Do you want change with that?"

Carl nods, and we kiss again, and then we don't stop kissing. Compared to the Virginian chill, his mouth is like a furnace, warming me up from the inside out. It's that passionate part. Starting all over again. When we want it. When we aren't even expecting it. Grounding and good and making us happy. Easy to come down from. Though, not right now. Right now, I'm not coming down from anything.

"That enough?" I ask anyway.

Carl shakes his head, letting a breathy, "No," leave him before he's grabbing my shirt and pulling me into the house. I clamber over the sill, only just managing to close it again by the time Carl has span me around to face him. We kiss again. We kiss while we're shuffling across the dining room and kitchen. We kiss while we climb the stairs and break into his bedroom and stagger over beds and rugs and desks. We kiss and kiss and kiss.

"You know?"

"Hmm."

"I really didn't sneak out just..."

"Uh-huh."

"Just so we could do this."

"I know."

"But, I mean..."

"Oliver."

"...I'd still really like us to."

"Me too."

I make a noise because we already are. I think if we do it long enough I'll really climb inside his skin. I'll push through his flesh and crawl through his skeleton. I'll find some warm cosy place deep inside of him and stay there. I forget how to speak and I forget I am only one body and not two fused together and I think I'm about to have a heart attack and I'm not exactly sure how he does this to me. I'm like some robot in the comics we read, and he knows every key and button and lever. Do I do this to him? I do. I totally do. We could use our powers against each other if we were malicious enough. But we aren't. We _so_ aren't.

What was it Penelope called it? Limerence? Yes, that's it.

Limerence, the state of being infatuated with another person.

* * *

". . . Oliver."

I groan.

"Get up."

"_Nuhh._"

He's kissing my cheek, then my throat, and at first I try to push him away but when he gets to my left collarbone, touching my bullet scar, I realise it actually feels pretty nice.

"Oliver, get up," Carl whispers, gentle and groggy. "We fell asleep. You're not supposed to be here."

I sit bolt upright, knocking him back and he grunts.

"Watch it."

"What time is it?"

It's still pitch black outside.

Carl retrieves my watch from my jeans pocket and reads, "Four-thirty – about."

I collapse back and groan, "It's hoo urly."

I think Carl will give me a rest, wait until dawn so I can sneak back, but I'm wrong. He kisses the small of my back (because that's apparently something we do now), and then, without warning, slaps me on my butt.

"Ouch!"

"Shh."

"The fuck, man?"

"Quiet. Dad only got back a while ago."

"You little shit head," I growl at him, shoving the duvet up over myself. He chuckles, tugs it back and kisses where it still stings. I push him away, very aware that we're still naked. "Stop, jerk off."

He gives up, instead gently pulls me to roll over and face him.

"What?" I ask, grinning.

"Thanks, y'know... for last night."

I laugh at him, playfully pushing his face away with my palm. He looks at me through my fingers, then pulls my hand away and his cheeks are red. Again, I can't help but laugh at him, stifling it into the back of my hand while I sit up and whisper something into his ear that makes him bury his forehead into my collarbone until he can think clearly again.

"You have to go back before anyone notices you're gone."

"I wish I could stay," I whisper, pouting yawning at the same time. Carl holds back his laugh, running thumb through my fringe and pressing his lips together empathetically. I'm wheezing and I left my inhaler next door, but luckily Carl has a spare. I didn't even know he kept spares for me. Pete has already suggested I attend an asthma check-up, but I've been avoiding it. Pete kind of scares me. Medicated, I get dressed and we creep downstairs.

I climb outside and I turn to him. "See you for breakfast?"

He nods and leans forward to press our foreheads. "Should be over by seven."

"Okay."

He kisses the words, "I love you," into my mouth, and I whisper back, "So much, man."

* * *

Climbing back up and into my bedroom happens without incident. Noah's still asleep in his bed opposite mine, and once I shut the window again and kicking off my shoes, I climb back into bed and read August with a flashlight.

A while later, I hear a few bodies shuffling around. It's Abraham and Rosita, and when I hear grunting, I realise they're having sex. Or, _screwing each other's brains out,_ as Abraham calls it. It really _does _sound hazardous. I dull it out with my pillow as best I can. How Noah can sleep through it, I don't know. Finally, it's over. _Tremendously. _A little while after that I hear footsteps and voices crossing the hallway or descending the staircase. Someone is showering, and someone else is coming to my door.

I pretend I'm asleep.

"Guys?"

It's Carol.

"You gotta wake up now. Day's starting. Noah, your Run starts soon."

"I'm awake," Noah says, like he doesn't mean it. I hear him stretching.

"Oliver, need you to help with chores."

Feigning my wake is easier than I think it'll be, because I really am tired. Exhausted, actually.

"It's cold," Noah groans.

"Did you have a window open?" Carol asks us.

I'm staring at the wall, wide awake now while I sit up and twist around. "Sorry. Only for a little while." I try not to notice the way Noah is glaring at me while he rubs his cold nose with the edge of his comforter.

"Well, heat's not something we can take advantage of," Carol tells me, "not even here. Try to keep it closed during the winter, okay?"

"Sorry," I say, even though all I heard was, _"Well, you can't get away with sneaking out the window every night anymore, too bad. You'll have to find another way to sneak out, okay?"_

Carol leaves, closing my door behind her.

Today, I find a pair of dark green converses, and I decide they're mine now. Breakfast is oatmeal and coffee. Coffee, because apparently, we'll need it. Me and Carl think it's disgusting so we share a cup and give the spare to Rick who practically inhales it. Once breakfast is done, everyone goes off and does their thing. Since I'm alternating between doing nothing and doing more nothing (today there's extra nothing right after I get out of nothing later) I have a few hours to kill until I have to go do that.

School is supposed to be thrown in there somewhere but I'm not banking on it.

Tara, doing nothing, too, since she's offered to help Olivia in a few hours, has interrupted my nothing with asking me to help with laundry. Carl offered to help but I said it was fine, that I'd look after Judy and that he should head to school.

"You aren't coming?"

"Later, maybe."

". . .Sure, Oliver."

Tara does the utility room stuff —I don't tell her why but when she sees my hands shaking she doesn't ask.

"So," she says. Judy is napping. We're outside now. Tara's pegging Daryl's waist coat on the line and the angel wings try to fly away. "Daryl told me he heard something strange last night, just as he was coming back from Aaron's and Eric's."

"Yeah?"

Her _Mhmm _noise all menace.

"That's weird," I say, "slept like a baby."

"I'm sure you did."

I grab Carol's red cardigan and ignore my hammering heartbeat while I peg it up. I'm well aware that Tara's still staring at me, her arms crossed and her left hip popped.

"It's just, get this, Daryl. He coulda _sworn_ he heard a window open."

I've got this covered: "Oh, yeah. I got too hot so I opened it."

She closes her eyes and lets out a sigh.

"What?"

"I didn't say it was your window, Oliver."

I think I just got stuck in my own cobweb.

"Plus, Daryl saw you reciting Shakespeare from the porch."

I'm not quick enough to stop the utter terror from washing over my expression. Tara doesn't even look at me. She is just pegging up more clothes, completely casual. I pull at my beanie but it isn't there.

"Think you left it over there, too."

"Tara."

"Along with your dignity."

"Tara."

"I mean, _Romeo and Juliet?_" she turns to me then, incredulous. "Couldn't you think of anything less cliché?"

_I swear, I'll never be sarcastic again if it means she stops taunting me like this._

"Tara, please, don't tell anyone."

She pushes my shoulder, "Relax, man."

I'm not sure how to respond, at all, so I just kind of unintentionally throttle Carol's cardigan in my hand.

"Really, Oliver."

I'm panicking, mumbling.

"Look, I get it, It's cool. I'm cool. Just, you know, try not to sneak out every night. From how bad you are at it already, it won't be long before you really get busted."

"I've just gotten used to sleeping with him."

Tara doesn't even try to hold in her snort.

"No. Not like that!" My pants catch on fire. "I mean. Erm. God. Tara, stop."

She giggles, pegging up a pair of jeans. "I get it, I swear. I know what it's like to be away from someone you love."

I nod, feeling foolish because obviously Tara would know what it's like. "Your boyfriend?"

She shakes her head. "My girlfriend, Katie."

"Oh."

"What?"

"No, nothing. I just didn't know you had a girlfriend. Glenn told me about your family, a little, and the Governor and your old camp, once, but he didn't mention that you're, you know..."

"That I'm gay?" she says.

"No," I lie, smirking. "He didn't mention that someone put up with all your terrible puns."

"Guess I was part of that LBGT community, too." I furrow my eyebrows. Tara smirks. "Sorry. I kinda listened in, that night in the warehouse."

"It's okay," I say, feeling small and ignorant and like an ass hole. "I couldn't lose Carl like that."

Tara sighs. "It's not just her that I miss."

"Your family?"

She nods.

Like I'd mentioned, Glenn told me the stories. How Tara, her father, sister and niece hid out in an apartment block for the first year of the Turn, until the Governor met them. He used a fake name; Philip or something, and gained their trust, their love, and how he seemed to love them, too. Because despite being the monster I met in the camper van and the antagonist whose horror tales I marvelled over for months before, the man did love. Or, tried to. Anyway, Tara's father didn't make it out of the apartment block, her sister died in the prison attack. I'm not sure what happened to her niece but I can guess it wasn't good.

I peg up Carol's (slightly crumpled) cardigan and when Tara doesn't move, I gently take her hand; a gesture that I've never done to her before. At first she chuckles at our extremities, but when I squeeze it, her smile fades, and her eyebrows arch, and her lips draw into her mouth to bite back a hiccup.

"They'd be happy for you, for choosing to do the right thing," I explain. "And, for finding this place. Finding people to care about."

"You, too." I hear the way her breath had caught at the last syllable. She laughs at herself and clears her throat. "C'mon. Enough mush. Laundry to do."

"And people to socialise with."

"Yes!" I peg up what I only just realise is someone's bra and my cheeks heat up, but I quickly get one of my shirts and peg that up too. Tara laughs at me, adds, "And dishes to wash."

"And floors to scrub!"

"And furniture to dust!"

We go on like this for a long time while we do our chores, calling out the domestic aliens, and even though we're joking about it the voice in my head is telling me: **_Can't stay in one place for too long. _**

_Don't worry,_ I tell it, _I won't hold my breath. I need it too much._

"You okay?"

I realise I've stopped doing laundry and am now stood under the line, lost in thought.

"Yeah," I say quickly, looking at her. "Fine."

"Something bothering you?"

I shake my head but stop because I'm lying, and I get this ball of energy in my throat, like a bubble of thought. I know what it is, too. I've been holding it in since I left Deanna's audition. . . and right now, I need more than anything in the world to tell someone. . .

"I don't want to do chores and help around the community."

Tara blinks.

"No, no," I splitter out, because that came out completely wrong. "I mean, I will. I've just, been thinking. I, uh. Um. I—"

"You wanna get a job?"

My head snaps up at her, and I inhale, ". . .Yeah."

"As what?"

"Nothing. It's stupid."

"You wanna be a runner, don't you?"

I think she's making fun of me. I think she's ridiculing me. I think she thinks I'm not good enough or mature enough to do it, so I stop her from talking and say, "Look, I know it's dangerous. And I know I'm only a kid. But, I'm good, out there. I can shoot. I'm fast. I-I just... I'm better out there, helping, better than bumming around here doing laundry and cooking all day."

"I actually think it's a good idea."

I blink at her. . .

"You do?"

"Yes. I do," she laughs. "It'll be Deanna and her son you'll need to convince."

I nod, swallowing nervously.

"Aiden's a dick," Tara explains. I make a noise, taken off guard. She keeps talking: "And Deanna's not gonna like the idea of a kid being sent out there. But I can put in a good word. Maggie too, now she's working with her. And Noah, Glenn, Rick and Michonne."

I nod gratefully.

"But it should come from you first."

My gut is falling out of my bellybutton so I hold my palm over it like a plug.

"I'll help you find her. Okay?"

"Wait, right now?"

"Laundry first."

"R-right," I say, picking up another bra and not flinching this time. "Yeah. Okay."

Tara grins.

"Hey, and just so you know," I say, "Mikey's borrowing my beanie. I didn't leave it next door."

* * *

**Notes**

I think we all knew this was coming.

I just needed that Carol and Oliver bit on the staircase. The secret _I love you_'s literally made me feel like I could pack up fanfiction all together and finish right there. Mamma Carol is the most satisfying thing to write ever._ Aughhh._

**Preview: Oliver's going to ask to be on the run team with Tara, Glenn, Noah, Aiden and Nicholas. For one, he's going to have to convince them, and two, he's going to have to break it to the rest of his group. Especially Carol and Carl...**

As always,  
Happy reading :_)_


	17. What is Wrong with You?

**Rolo-chan **Yes, I'll try. I kinda miss the voice in his head too. Wouldn't put it past him calling her Mom by mistake.

**BloodGutsandChocolatePudding **Yes, I went back and put it so that Oliver recited a line from Romeo and Juliet! Thank you!

**DarthGranola **Thanks! Yeah, Tara is amazing.

**The Flash Fanatic **Oliver's flattered xD

**ILoveGoten1999 **Yes xD

**Guest **Hey, crap, I'm sorry, I accidentally deleted the second comment you gave, but I remember it, and I wanted to ask, what you _do _think will happen? Hmm? Also, yeah, don't worry, I'll do my best to keep you on your toes...

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

Tara walks me to Deanna's.

She talks the whole way there. I guess she's had a lot on her mind lately. Most of it seems to be about feminism. Feminism's something Tara says she thinks about a lot. I've never really spent a lot of time thinking about the difference between men and women, girls and boys, but when I say this, Tara says it's not really about that anyway. She says, "Doesn't matter if some are stronger or some aren't. Doesn't matter if some shave and some don't." And I say, "As long as they don't try to kill me, I don't care." And then she tucks me under her arm and says, "That's the spirit."

I laugh.

"I don't think I'll be someone who shaves," I say—I don't know why I say this, saying things around Tara is easy, like swimming downstream. I guess I like that. "Especially not like those girls in centrefolds. I'd look like a giant baby?"

I swear, she doesn't stop laughing until we're standing on Deanna's porch. She tries to ask me where I got any centrefolds from in the first place and I want to make a joke about why she'd want it anyway, but I get too embarrassed and don't get any words out.

I look at the front door like I'm expecting it to open for me.

**_Dude, knock.  
_**_Okay.  
**. . .Well?  
**Give me a second.  
**A second.  
. . .Twenty seconds.  
. . . .Oliver, it's been almost a minute.**_

"Oliver?"

"This isn't gonna work," I blurt. "I'm shooting way too high." I turn around, but Tara's hands firmly set themselves on my shoulders to hold me in place.

"No, you're not," she says. "You're going to ask."

"What do I say?"

I hear her scoff.

"What if she gets mad?" I insist.

"Use your voice, Oliver."

I take a deep breath and hold it for a second. "Fine," I exhale, turning my head to her. "Do you know something?"

"What?"

"You'd be a good drug pusher."

Tara blinks at me. "I'm a little offended."

"No, no. You're just all convincing and stuff."

Tara shrugs. "My sister use to have anxiety attacks. Had to do this a lot to get her to go to job interviews, the worst was getting her to apply to go to nursing college."

"Oh," I say.

"Oliver," Tara says at the same time, turning me around. "Back when we were going through Lorton. I saw the way you looked at the town. I know you left your parents at home."

I get the feeling she heard Carl and I talking that night we met Eric.

"Look," Tara says, "you didn't say anything back then, even though you wanted to. And you should have. Now you're about to stay silent again and you're gonna regret it even more. You can't jus' let things happen and put up with it. You gotta speak your mind, Oliver. Use your voice."

_Use my voice. Yes. Okay._

I knock. There's a noise inside the house and I step back into Tara's chest. I step forward again and say, "Sorry."

"Shh."

"You _shush_." I mean to say it to Tara, but in the same moment the door opens and I speak to Deanna instead.

"Oh."

"No," I gasp, "not you."

"I'm sorry?"

I go mute.

Tara is laughing.

Deanna smiles. "Erm. Hello, Oliver. Hi, Tara."

"Hi."

I don't say anything.

"How can I help you both?" Deanna asks.

Tara steps back, putting me in the spotlight.

"Oh..." Deanna smiles at me. "How can I help you, Oliver?"

"Um, can I, talk—to you?"

"Of course, come in."

Deanna leads us into the dining room and gestures us to take a seat around the table. She stands at the end, her arms stretched over the side and leaning on them. She looks like those judges in court I'd see on TV when Dad was home.

She's still smiling, squinting a little. "What is it you'd like to speak to me about, Oliver?"

I stutter and shake my head.

"It's more of a proposition, Deanna," Tara explains.

"Oh." Deanna looks at her, then me. "Well, I'm all ears."

"I wanted..." Puberty cracks my voice. My cheeks boil. I clear my throat and try again: "I wanted to know if I could help out on runs, with Tara and Glenn—and the others?"

Deanna doesn't say anything for a moment. She isn't hesitating. Deanna doesn't hesitate. No, she's thinking.

She inhales deeply.

"He's good, Deanna. I've seen him out there," Tara says.

Deanna smiles at her. "Thank you," she says. She looks at me again, gesturing. "But I'd like to hear it from you, Oliver."

I stare at her.

"Come on," she leans into the table. "If I'm supposed to trust a child with an adult's job, you need to tell me why."

"I can shoot," I say the first thing I think of. "I'm good with a knife. I'm, uh. I'm fast."

Deanna doesn't say anything. Tara's staring at me too.

**_This is never going to work. You blew it. Why the Hell did you decide to even ask in the first place? Idiot. _**

"Look," I say, "I'm not gonna tell you I'm perfect for this job, or, that I'll save lives and that I'll be fearless and brave no matter what. Because I won't, and I'm not. I'm not perfect for anything, and most of the time I'm totally scared out of my shit."

**_I don't think that's the saying._**

"Sorry," I say. "Mind. Scared out of my _mind_."

Deanna, smirking, waits for me to keep going, so I do.

"I know what it's like out there," I say after a few beats. "I do. All I wanna do is help, and providing for this place by going on runs is one way that I know how. One way I'm actually _good_ at."

**_Where the hell did all of that come from?_**

"And what happens when someone gets hurt?" Deanna asks me. "What happens when you are afraid? What happens when there's no way out and the only thing you can think about is to save yourself?"

I don't skip a breath. "No one gets left behind."

Deanna just looks at me. Then she does something kind of like a half nod that turns into a glance over her shoulder to Tara. Tara looks a little shell-shocked. I guess she wasn't expecting me to _use my voice _that much either.

"Tara, could you go into the office and ask Maggie in here please?"

"Uh. Yeah, sure."

"It's just down those steps."

"Got it."

When the door at the end of the staircase is closed, Deanna turns back to me. I watch a wide smile grow over her mouth. She claps her hands together and brings the tips of her fingers up to her lips in satisfaction. "I have to say, Oliver, I wasn't expecting you to ask for something like this."

"Me neither," I admit.

"Why do you want to?" she asks. "Not just that you're capable, but, why do you want this?"

My eyebrows knit into a frown as I try to put my answer into a sentence. I think of the day I met this woman, her questions and confidence, her gentle authority and dominance, her thousand smiles and Van Goughly painted face, and for a moment I try to think of something she would say, but I can't. I'm not _politician_ enough, and so I just tell her the truth.

"I'm not looking for adventure," I say, "or, fun, or glory. I know it's not like that out there. I know that it's life and death, and I know that it's... terrifying... and dangerous... and that it can mess with your head. But, I just... I _need_, to stay."

"I don't understand."

"I need to stay... a survivor."

All my life I've never known how to identify. I'd never seen myself as someone that could fit into any one category of People. Before, like Penelope said, I was _just me_. A dumb kid waiting around for something to feel significant that would most likely never happen. I was just me. But when the outbreak hit, all of that stopped, completely. I wasn't just Oliver anymore. Or even Ollie. Sometimes I wasn't even sure I was anything at all. All I knew was how to try not to die—how to survive.

So that's what I became.

_A survivor._

That's how I identify, and there's nothing I can ever do to change it.

But like always, the words are lost before they make it out of my mouth and the words I say come out rushed and rambly: "Didn't you say that I was intelligent? Intuitive? That I don't miss anything? You said you needed people like that. Like me."

"Yes, I did," Deanna says. "But I also remember you telling me that you miss a lot of things."

"Yes, ma'am," I say, sinking. "I do."

She frowns in confusion, or maybe curiosity, or maybe both, or maybe neither at all and it's totally something else.

"You're fifteen-years-old," she says. "You can settle here. You can go to school and have friends, let your guard down."

"I know that," I insist. "And I'm so, _so_ grateful. I am, ma'am. But I can't do that. Not all the time... It only takes one second. If I'm out there, helping, I can try to make that one second count. I... I know that I won't always get it right, and I know that people could die. I know. But I need to—"

Just then Maggie and Tara return from the office. Maggie offers me a smile which I return with a tenser one.

"Ah," Deanna says, "Maggie. How are the fuel plans coming along?"

"Alright, thanks." Maggie glances at me. "What's goin' on, Oliver?"

"Oliver here is asking to join the run team," Deanna explains.

Maggie's eyebrows crease. Then she nods. "Does Carol know yet?"

"No," I say, a little whispery.

"Rick?"

"No."

"Carl?"

I swallow, ". . . no."

"_Oliver..._"

"It's just Tara and you guys right now," I blurt out.

"This is all merely something to take into consideration at the moment," Deanna says, turning to Maggie. "Do you know where Aiden is? I'll need to talk to him about this too."

"He's in the armoury. I'll go get him," Maggie offers.

"Thank you."

Tara and Denise talk for a few minutes, and I try my best not to feel or look like some mutt with its tail between its legs. Maggie and Aiden return finally. Everyone takes a seat at the table; Deanna at the end looking over us all like before.

"What's this about?" Aiden asks. Shit. He sounds impatient.

_What's he got that's any better to do? More walkers to chain up?  
**Look, it's obvious that you don't particularly like him, but if you do this he'll somewhat be your boss, so get over it.**_

I fake a polite smile at him.

"Oliver has asked to be on your run team," Deanna explains.

Aiden doesn't look at me, but a laugh falls between his lips. His thick, black eyebrows arch incredulously. "You're kidding, right?" he laughs again, but when no one else does his expression is Medusafied, and he points at me. "_This_ Oliver?"

Deanna frowns at him.

"You want him to be on my team? He's what? _Twelve?_"

"No, sir, er, I'm actually fif—"

"_Mom,_" Aiden says, ignoring me. "I'm not having some qu—"

"Aiden!"

"Some _kid..._ getting us killed out there."

"I have reason to believe that Oliver is more than capable."

"Who'd you hear that from, these two?" He throws his hand in Maggie and Tara's direction. "Of course they'll say that."

"We're sitting right here, Aiden."

Aiden's teeth grit.

"From what I've been told," Deanna begins, "Oliver is experienced with a gun, and has been a reliable asset to his group for a long time now. Plus, Noah is going to be undergoing surgery soon, you'll need the extra help."

"He's fourteen."

"Er, actually I'm fif—"

"Christ," Aiden cuts me off. "More than capable? Some little kid?"

"I want you to take him out on a dry run. Local. Nothing too big. A test—see how he gets on."

"_Mom._"

"_Aiden._"

He looks furious.

"You don't like him, or he puts a step wrong, you're the deciding vote," Deanna reasons. "But right now, I want you to give this a chance."

Aiden sighs. "I wanna see his tape."

"They're confidential."

"I don't care. If he's gonna be around my team, I need to see it." He turns to me, looking me up and down like I'm some ant under a microscope. "I wanna see what we're dealin' with."

Deanna glares at him, then looks at me. "Would that alright with you, Oliver?"

Aiden scoffs.

I look at him, then her. "Yes, ma'am."

* * *

While Aiden and Deanna discussed more, Tara and I were allowed to leave. We went home. I figured I wouldn't tell anyone what was going on. If Aiden said no, none of it would ever have to be spoken about anyway. But I hadn't thought to tell Tara this, so when we both notice Carl leaving the first house with Penelope and Ron, I dive behind a gutter-water barrel and hide from them.

"Oliver..."

"Shh."

Tara stares at me, then straightens up and looks at the others.

"Hey, Tara," Carl says. He, Ron and Penelope are on the other side of the street.

"Hey," she says.

They must move on without noticing me, because after a few seconds Tara steps around the barrel, pulls me up, and grimaces.

"What the hell, dude?"

"Nothing," I say, and keep walking back towards the house.

"Carl was looking for you," is the first thing Rick tells me as I walk in. "Just left with your friends."

"Oh," I say. "Must've missed them."

Tara is giving me a look but I avoid it and leave the house to go next door for a few hours instead. I figure there will be less people to _give me a look _there. I know I need to tell them; Carl and Rick and Carol and everybody. I should have a long time ago. But as the days went on it got more difficult. After going out the other day, after Enid, I realised what that weird empty space in my chest was. I miss the outside. It's like some friend. One of those that hurt you now, but used to make you feel _so happy, _at some point, and it's just too hard to let them go now. Being out there, being afraid, has become normal to me. A crushing, horrifying, wonderful sort of normal.

I know it makes no sense.

The turn made a lot of things, but not sense.

I'm sitting at my desk, stressing out. The kind of stressing out that the only thing I can think to do to comfort myself is to stick my hand in my underwear and cup my balls. Yeah, _that _kind of comforting. Not sexual. Just _comforting. _Like rubbing your belly or making some hot coco. Still, compared to those, my choice of personal comfort is a lot less socially acceptable, so when all of a sudden, mid-_innocent_-ball-cupping, Carol comes barging into my bedroom, I almost fall off my chair.

"Ahh!"

My hand is already out of my pants. Either Carol didn't notice or she's too mad to care. "Oliver," she barks, "explain, _now._"

"W—What?"

"Deanna and Maggie just got here. They're talking about you going on runs with the others."

I'm mute.

Maggie, Tara, Deanna and Rosita all file into my bedroom, too. Daryl, I think, is lurking outside in the hallway. I'm self-conscious and embarrassed because my room is a mess and the windows are shut and it's stuffy in here and smells like balls and semen—in the few hours since talking with Deanna and Aiden I may have been procrastinating from school and telling everybody about the run team and generally just from being a productive human being by indulging in copious amounts of masturbation. . . so fine, the ball-cupping may have been a little less innocent, and a little more _post-jerkoff-comforting._

"Oliver," Deanna says, "you've been here for two hours and you haven't told them yet?"

Still mute.

"Oliver," Carol says. I nod. She looks so annoyed that half of me is anticipating her to drag me out of here by my ear. She waits for me to reply, and when I don't she says, "Are you hearing me?"

Again, I just nod.

"Jesus," Rosita says. "You really need to work on the whole communication thing."

Tara's eyes linger on the scrunched-up tissue on the floor by my trash can. She looks at me. My cheeks catch fire. "Maybe we should take this downstairs," she says.

The others follow her suggestion and we all gather in the living room. I sit on the couch, hands on my knees, fidgeting and tapping my fingers. The others are watching me, waiting for me to talk. . .

"I just asked."

"Asked what?" Carol asks, even though she knows. I get this feeling like maybe she needs to hear this from me. I get this feeling like I'm not sure I can ever talk again. I'm standing up now, pushing my hands in my pockets so I don't tap with them.

"I want to join Aiden's run team," I say.

"The _'Run Team'_?"

I just nod.

"Erm, just so you know," Tara says, "only Deanna calls us that."

I give her a look. Tara shrugs submissively. Rosita snickers. Carol doesn't. She's looking at Daryl and he's looking at his feet like he doesn't want anybody to talk to him yet.

"It's not official," Deanna says, "but Aiden and Nicholas have agreed to let him accompany them all on a small outing to loot a few suburb houses around the area. A dry run."

"And they just agreed to it?" Carol asks. "Even after the other day?"

"Well..." Deanna tilts her head, "it took a little persuasion. But yes, they've agreed."

"Oliver's not going out there just to be left behind when things go south," Carol warns.

"He won't be," Deanna says. "I assure you. Aiden wouldn't let that happen."

Unsatisfied, Carol turns to me. In my head, I picture myself booking-it out of here and her tackling me to the floor before I make it off the porch. I decide to stay put.

"Has Carl spoke to you about this?" she asks. "Persuaded you?"

"No. He doesn't know yet."

**_This is ridiculous.  
_**_I know.  
**You're such an idiot, Oliver. **  
I know!  
**This is getting out of hand. No, this is so far out of hand that the hand isn't even there anymore.**_

"I really think you should think about this."

"By all means," Deanna agrees with Carol. "In the end, if he still wants to, tomorrow at nine they're going on the run. But as his guardian, Carol, I need to hear it from you that you're comfortable with this."

Deanna knows that Carol isn't my mother. At the welcome party, I heard them and a few other Alexandrians talking:

"Must be hard," Mrs. Neudermyer said. "Raising him without his father."

"I don't know," Carol said. "Guess it doesn't really apply to us, what with raising him without his mother, too."

She got funny looks for saying that. Carol didn't seem to regret it. She looked a little giddy really, like she wasn't really thinking about what she was saying.

"He's my boy, but he's not my boy," she said.

"He's adopted?" Erin asked. Erin's the woman who told Carol to hit her.

"Yes," Carol told her, "just, without the paperwork."

"It's a wonderful thing you've done, Carol," Deanna said. "That boy loves you. I can see it."

She looked at me then, Carol, across the room of thirty partying people, right at me like she knew I was exactly where I was, sitting there alone and watching her. And then her face shut down a little, like she'd woken up from a dream, and she walked away to get another glass of wine.

"Thank you," Carol says.

"Don't see what the big deal is," Daryl pipes up. "Boy can take care of himself. Most of the time he's got his shit together better than the rest of us. Y'all know that."

I wasn't expecting that, so I spend a second trying not to feel too dopy about it. Sometimes, when Daryl is nice to me, all of a sudden, I get that feeling Patrick must have gotten when he and Daryl shook hands in the outdoor cafeteria, like I'm star-struck and uncomfortable all at the same time.

Carol is looking Tara, talking in their heads, and then she looks at me again, then finally, Deanna. "He'll sleep on it. If he still wants to go he'll be at yours in the morning."

She steps across the room to me and sighs sharply through her teeth, shaking her head at herself and pressing the back of her hand over her mouth.

"I trust you," she tells me. "Don't get hurt... or your grounded."

I want to laugh, but I just nod. "Yes, ma'am."

Carol turns to Deanna, who smiles and nods and says, "Oliver, tomorrow at nine. Have a good evening, everyone."

She leaves. Slowly, everyone turns and looks at me. I could cut the tension with Lizzie's knife if it wasn't next door in Carl's bedside table. I'm only slightly shell-shocked. I didn't think things would move this fast.

I realise I'm smiling. I realise I'm excited. And then that goes away because Carl walks into the house. He's lugging Judith's high-chair in front of him, but manages to kick the door ajar with his foot.

"We're eating here tonight, right?"

"Yeah," Carol answers, glancing at me expectantly.

"Uh, hey," I say to him.

Carl looks at me, only just noticing I'm here. He sets the chair up at the table, says, "Sup?" and I shrug, and then he leaves again without saying anything else.

That was awkward. I can't tell if it was awkward because of me or him or because everybody was staring at us. They move on when I roll my eyes. Rosita gets a book. Tara goes to the bathroom. Daryl pushes himself away from the wall and gently takes Carol's arm, squeezing her elbow. She dips her head and listens to something he whispers into her ear, and then he leaves.

Carol goes into the kitchen to start cooking. She looks stressed and overwhelmed. I realise I am tapping again, on the island, so I stuff my hands into my pockets again. Carol is leaning against the counter, eyes shut, breath held. I touch her fingers. She jumps.

She frowns at me, and then she sighs. "You're so quiet."

"Careful," I say, "your possum is showing."

"Oliver," she complains, "I think we've just about run that joke dry now."

"Yeah," I admit, "guess."

I grab a cooking pot when Carol gestures for it. She grabs a small sack of pasta (Mrs. Neudermyer's creation) and puts it on the table.

"Carl seemed upset," she says, "think he knows already?"

I shrug and decide not to think about it yet while I fill up the pot and put it on the stove. I switch on the flame and watch it wrap around the base of the pan. I watch the water slowly heat up, all the tiny bubbles beginning to form on the non-stick like fur.

"Avoiding this won't help, Oliver."

"I'm not avoiding it," I lie. "I'm just... savouring time before."

Carol doesn't stop staring at me. I know I'm being a dick. I know she's afraid. I know I sound like a child. _I know, I know, I know. _I turn to her.

"I'm sorry. I'll talk to him," I say, picking up the sack of pasta and pouring enough for our household. "I'll talk to Rick, too. Promise."

Carol nods.

"I'll make the rest of this," I compromise/procrastinate. "Pasta and pesto, cool?"

"Yes. Cool," Carol says as if she'd thought of it. I smile. She can't help but smile, too. "Get to cookin'."

* * *

Pasta and pesto.

Simple.

I mean, I can dispatch a walker any day. I can disassemble and reassemble any gun that's handed to me. I can skin a rabbit and gut a fish and pluck a prairie-chicken, no trouble. So, leaving pasta in a pot of boiling water, then when it's done and drained simply sticking a lump of pesto in and mixing it shouldn't be too hard, and it's not, I guess. Sure, I almost drop the pan, and the pasta might be a little al dente, but it turns out okay.

Just as I'm about to announce that I'm ready to serve up, something slips around my middle and I jump out of my skin. On instinct, I drop to the floor. My spoon flips up from the pot on the counter and flings a few scalding pasta pieces at me.

"Ack, shit! _Carl!_"

"Sorry," Carl laughs. "Didn't mean to scare you."

"Yes you did," I frown, standing up again when he takes my hand and pulls.

"Yeah." He bites his lip. "Totally on purpose."

"You seem like you're in a good mood."

Carl smiles and shrugs. "You left this last night," he whispers, fishing into his back pocket and handing me my grey beanie. "Found it in my room a minute ago."

"Thanks." I pull it on.

"You weren't at school today," he says.

"I was talking to Deanna."

"Oh?"

"Yeah."

He frowns curiously, shifting his weight on his hips the way his father does. It's kind of disturbing how similar they are sometimes. I hesitate. Carol is in the living room reading. I look at her and she looks at me, then keeps reading.

"Oliver?" Carl asks.

I look back at him. "So, do you want the good news or the bad news first?"

**_I think they'll both be bad news for him._**

Carl looks worried. "Bad news."

"Tara knows I snuck out."

"W—What? How?"

"It's okay," I explain quickly. "She won't tell. We just, can't sneak out a lot."

"Is that the good news?" he asks.

I shake my head. I'm not smiling so I force myself to. "I, uh... I might be going on a run tomorrow."

Carl is smiling, smiling, then smiling less, then not smiling at all. "What are you talking about?"

"That's what I asked Deanna today," I answer. "And, um, Aiden agreed to it. Noah has his op soon, so, I think I'm filling in for him."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

I inhale. I'm going to answer but water froths and starts tipping over the pan. I'd forgotten to turn off the stove. I rush to, cleaning up the mess with a dish towel.

"Oliver?"

"I never thought I'd get the nuts to ask," I say, turning back to him. He isn't blinking. The blue's too much, so I distract myself and rinse the towel in the sink. "I didn't even mean to, I was just talking to Tara this morning and it all just... came out."

**Stop making excuses.**

"I would've talked to you before if I'd known I wanted it so much," I say in spite of myself. "It's not official. I can say no. I've just got to decide if I'm sure."

"You've already decided."

It was almost an interruption, and it wasn't a question, just a statement. I don't reply. I just stare at him. The silence is too long. Too tense. I reach out to touch his hand but he pulls away: It happens slowly at first, but then more surely, dropping his hand by his side and stepping back. He won't even look at me.

"Carl."

He marches right out of the house.

Carol looks at him, then me, then him, then finally her book. "You go after him and I'll finish dinner," she says to me. "Good luck."

"Thanks," I say under my breath as I shut the front door behind me. Carl is crossing the lawn towards next door. I call out, "Carl."

He doesn't stop.

"Carl, wait."

I catch his sleeve as he climbs up to the porch. Carl shrugs me off and shoots me a glare. I'm thrown off the porch, except I just sort of step back a little.

We look at each other for a second. And then that second passes and I figure I should say something. I don't. I don't say anything. Nothing at all. I make this scratchy swallow noise because my throat has turned into the Sahara dessert.

Carl's face is a closed-up box. I don't know what's going on inside it. Like Schrodinger's cat that Erin made us write a paper on the other day in class.

Then Carl speaks.

"What is wrong with you?"

**_Cat's out of the box._**

I don't say anything.

"Why are you doing this?" he goes on. And he's pacing now. "It's not fair."

I step up onto the porch and touch his arm.

"Not a damn bit fair, Oliver!"

He swats me away.

"Stop that!" he yells. "Stop being so quiet! Stop being so _Oliver!_"

I'm checking around him into the house, wishing he wouldn't be so loud, wishing his father wasn't inside listening to this, wishing I knew what to do.

"You're not even listening to me."

"I am," I say.

"No," he retorts, "you aren't! If you were, you wouldn't do this. If you were, you wouldn't let this happen again."

I can feel my face all twisted up in confusion, and I'm mad. I am. "Again?"

"Yes, again."

And then we're both yelling at each other.

"What—What am I doing again?"

"Everything! You're gonna get yourself kidnapped, or lost, or shot—"

"That won't—"

"I can't do that again!"

"You won't!"

"It gets worse, Oliver! Every time, it gets worse!"

"It's gonna get worse whatever we do!"

"How can you just say that?!"

"Think about it. There is no happy endings anymore. I can't just... _sit_ here, playing videogames and eating stupid potato chips. I can't just pretend everything's normal!"

"God!" Carl turns away, hands on his face. "You're so _annoying!_"

"I'm not trying to piss you off."

Carl grits his teeth, glancing over at Daryl who is sitting next door on the porch. I didn't even notice him when I left. He takes a plate as Carol comes out and hands it to him. They don't look at us. Carol goes inside and Daryl starts his meal. It's too hot so he puts it aside and lights a cigarette while his food cools down.

When I look back at Carl he is turning to go inside.

"Look," I blurt.

He stops and looks at me, his hand on the door.

"I thought if I just didn't think about it, it all wouldn't bother me so much," I go on. "But it _does_. I need to go out there. I feel like a zoo animal in this place. I just—"

"I saw you earlier," Carl cuts me off, "with Tara."

My face heats up. Inside my own head I die from embarrassment, but under my breath I just say, "Thought the barrel looked big enough to hide behind."

That is when Carl shoves me, right in the shoulders. I stagger back and only just manage to catch myself before I fall onto my ass. Speechless, I stare at him. He stares right back. For a second he looks guilty, and then he starts yelling at me: "I saw you _before _you hid from me!"

_I'm sorry, _I think and think and think and say nothing.

"You did that," Carl tells me. "You _actually_ did that. In front of our friends! What the hell, Oliver? You think I don't feel like that, too!? Like I'm trapped? Like I'm some monster dressed up and pretending I'm not what I know I am?"

"You're not."

"Shut up!" he bites at me. "Shut up, shut up! Asshole! _Asshole! _I'm trying! I've been hanging around with the others all day! There's me telling them, _"He'll come along soon. He'll try. I just gotta wait a little longer. He'll try with me. It'll make it easier for both of us. A little more bearable."_ Well it wasn't easy! It'd never easy doing it without you! For the first few days, sure. It wasn't great but it wasn't _bad_. You and I stuck together. And the other day, when you didn't wanna come into Ron's yet? That was okay too. And today when you didn't wanna come, I didn't say anything. I understood that you didn't want to, that you just need more time, that—that it's all _coming on a little strong_. But what're you really doing? You're planning to escape, _without_ me! And there's nothing I can do about it!"

I can't speak. I can't speak!

"You think I wanted to do all that?" Carl asks. "You really think I believe any of that videogame potato-chip _shit_ is important? I _don't!_ But I'm _trying!_ I'm trying to adjust! _Bounce back!_ You won't even do that anymore!"

We stare at each other for another minute. I hear the whole world go silence. Even the birds stop chirping, or that's what it feels like. Then Carl grabs me.

I think of that day, in the suburb house, when he lost his shoe. I knew he was going to kiss me but I don't know he's going to now. Until he _is. _Kissing me and kissing me. Furious and intense and hard enough that I jostle back a step. My arms stretch outward. Carl's breath hitches. My heart cracks. And then I kiss him back. One hand finds his waist and the other touches his cheek, gently, then not so gently. I hold him. I grab him, push, and his lower back is against the banister.

I pull back slowly, delicately, and keep my eyes shut for several seconds.

He takes my face.

He whispers, "I've never asked you for anything."

"Carl..."

"_Oliver. _Please."

I don't say anything. There's a voice in me and it's saying. **_I have to. I have to. I have to. _**And then I realise I'm saying it out loud in between my breaths.

Carl's eyes snap between mine. His face is all open, like he'll say something, and then it shuts down again. He shuffles away from me slowly, then marches inside and slams the front door behind him.

I flinch.

I'm hugging myself, staring at the deck-floor. Behind me, the door is smacking against the frame in the breeze. I hear someone walking down the street. Noah and Penelope. Bean greets me.

"Hey, man," Noah says. By their faces, I know they just saw all that.

"Hey," I say.

"Oh, hey, my surgery's tomorrow."

I frown. "But... the run."

"After, when we're back."

"We," I repeat under my breath. I know he didn't mean _me too-we_. I consider telling him I'll be joining him. I figure Carol or Tara will.

I haven't said anything else, so they're watching me.

"Been hanging out with the guys?" I ask Noah. By 'the guys' I mean the small group of older kids that Noah's made friends with a little. One guy's called Brad, another, Neil, and the girl is called... _something_. I forget. But I know her surname is Sommerling—which I thought was cool. Regardless, Enid says all they do is smoke cigarettes, drink and sleep together. I don't know if all that's true but it isn't really my business.

"Nah," Noah says. "Just Nell."

It occurs to me that Penelope is the right age to hang out with both us and the older kids. It occurs to me that Penelope and Noah are probably pretty good friends by now.

"I should go," I say. "Later. Oh, Noah, supper's ready."

"Cool. Nell, wanna join?"

They keep talking, and while I go inside 101, Penelope says, "See you, Ollie."

"Yeah."

As soon as I'm inside, I know everybody knows what's happened.

I bite back a curse.

"Evenin', Oliver," Rick says.

"Hi. Is, er—"

"Upstairs, with Judith."

With a nod, I pass the living room and disappear up the staircase. Carl's bedroom door is open, a little. I knock, then poke my head in.

He's sitting cross-legged on his bed, Judith in his lap. They watch me shut the door behind me. I climb across the first bed and sit with them on the second. I cross my legs, directly in front of him, knees-to-knees. Judith has Carl's hands and she uses them as leverage while she lies back to rest across both his and my shins. She giggles.

Carl and I are watching each other, blues and browns mashing. He's mad, but he's not _as _mad, at least.

"You were right," I say finally. "I have decided."

Carl's pupils dilate. I see it. It blows me away. He scratches his eyebrow with the hand Judith isn't messing with.

"Sorry I pushed you."

I shrug, "Deserved it."

He holds out a hand and I assume he wants me to hold it, but instead he punches my shoulder. "Yeah, you did."

I chuckle. This time, when he reaches out again, he lets me hold his hand. We tangle our fingers. I frown, then smile when Judith grabs her brother's thumb.

Carl sighs.

I sigh.

And then I kiss his cheek and he leans forward against me, his forehead on my shoulder and my forehead on his collarbone.

"It's a local run tomorrow," I say. "Dry run. If I don't make the cut, we'll just forget this."

His arm comes up, snaking around my side and up to grip my shoulder. "You'll make the cut," he whispers. Judith looks up at me, sat comfy in the gap between Carl and I—her own little cave of people who love her.

"You sound so sure," I reply.

"Well, yeah," he says. "I am. I—I'm not happy about it, but I am sure."

"Thanks," I say. "I'm sorry I didn't say anything before."

He makes a murmur noise.

I shuffle a little closer.

"Oliver?"

"Yeah."

"You die out there, I'm gonna kill you."

I hug him then, suddenly.

"I die out there," I say into his shoulder, "I'm gonna kill me, too."

He is hugging me back. "Then don't die, okay?"

"Okay, Carl."

* * *

**Notes**

I don't want him to always make the best decisions. He's a teenager, and an idiot. Aka, human.

As always,  
Happy reading :_)_


	18. Eigengrau

**The Flash Fanatic **Yeah, I agree. Oliver has been a pretty huge dick. But I'm hoping he'll redeem himself before long. I think Oliver finds it difficult to know how to react to so many people caring about him. He never had much of a father before, and he's always found bonding and talking to people hard. He's got a very, _"I have to do this first, and then tell them I love them if and when I get a chance." _attitude. He shows his love to others through what he does for them, most of the time without them realising, and often that process seems cold and distant even though he has their best intentions at heart. Still, doesn't stop me from wanting to clip upside his head more often than not. And thanks! x

**BloodGutsandChocolatePudding **Ah, no, he's not unfortunately x he's trying.

**DarthGranola **Haha, I'm so glad to cause such emotional conflict haha thanks x

**Prettyprincess45 **No, don't worry. Glad to hear from you. Maybe it'll be easier to message on the other site? Haha, you make me laugh xD And thanks! X)

* * *

**Sorry if I hadn't made it clear enough. But the gap between Forget and Spend is going to be stretched out a few weeks in this story. So, the run with the revolving door hasn't happened yet :)**

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

Waking up alone for the first time in two months is something that I'm not entirely sure I know how I feel about. I can stretch my arms and legs out (even though I don't) without threatening to jab anyone in the face or push anyone off the bed, and I can wheeze or snore without someone holding my nose until I wake up; that was Rosita, once, because she didn't realise that holding an asthmatic's nose to stop them from breathing was a terrible idea.

But still, waking to this is... vacant, for lack of a better word. So, naturally, the first thing I have on my mind is to go next door and find the only person who can redeem that vacancy, and so I do, leaving Noah asleep on the opposite side of the bedroom, though, having to do one other thing first, so tiptoeing across the hall and knocking on Carol's door. I hear her stir and grumble something into her comforter, so I lean into the room.

"Carol."

"_Mmm._"

"It's me."

"Sunshine."

I almost roll my eyes, but I don't because I'm smiling.

"Yeah. I'm going next door."

"Is it morning?"

"Yeah." _Morning _is mine and Carl's loop hole; instead of waiting for everyone to wake up, if we can see light (despite how dim) then we can leave, just as long as we tell first. "It's morning. About five-thirty. I'll be back before the run goes."

"Be back before the run goes," she repeats me. I chuckle.

"Promise."

Outside, only one person on our whole street aside from me is awake already: Daryl, obviously, who is sat on 101's porch, and I bid him good morning as I pass to which, from his book, he glances up and grunts. Daryl is still working as substitute for Eric, while he recovers, scouting for more survivors. No, I think he's _taking over_ for Eric now. They're helping to, _"Build the community," _Deanna calls it. He and Aaron are leaving this morning, back in a few days.

Inside, I get myself a drink and go upstairs, tiptoing across Carl's bedroom.

His arm is bent at an odd angle behind his head with his hand tucked under his pillow. It's always amazed me the tangled positions Carl can find himself asleep. I kneel down and gently brush my fingers through his dark brown fringe, and he stirs, opening one eye, then the other. I try not to feel like Harry Potter when his Gringotts bank vault was opened, but I am staring at towers and towers of gold only it's cerulean blue pools and I'm falling inside of them, making a wet splash while I sink down down down through all the perfect periwinkle. Then the pool-pile of blue-gold tumbles to the side to look at me.

I smile, even though inside I am getting swept away and it's awesome.

"Morning, Carl."

Carl doesn't say anything. He just opens his arms, lifting the comforter, and I crawl into his bed and wrap my arms around him and bury myself in that small comfortable space against his ribcage.

"You tired?" he asks. His morning voice is deep and croaky and it warms me all the way down to my toes.

"No," I say, playing with his hands. "Are you?"

Carl turns over, facing me, and I bring his fingers up to run the smooth surfaces of his nails over my lips.

"A little," he answers. "You hungry?"

"No," I say again. "Are you?"

"A little," he answers. He holds a breath for a seconds and lets it out while he says, "You worried?" and I inhale his voice and use it back to him. . .

"I think so."

His lips purse.

"Are you?"

"Of course," he whispers, so quietly I almost miss it, and then he's pulling me into him and I'm burying my face into the part of his neck that is warm and soft enough to stay there forever. "How am I supposed to kill you if you die?"

I scrunch my eyes shut, that guilty pang for what I am putting him through clenching around my gut again.

"Well, luckily the job'll be done for you," I say into his skin, voice muffled, bawling my hands up into his pyjama shirt. He doesn't reply to me because his heart is too bust shattering. "God, that wasn't funny." I wince. "I'm sorry, Carl."

"It's okay," he mumbles, not meaning it but accepting it. Because like he said yesterday, he can't do anything about it, and it makes me feel nauseous with guilt.

"I'm not just talking about the joke."

There is a pause, and I pull away from him to look at him, staring for a moment with an exchange of furrowed eyebrows and focused blues and browns. I'd rehearsed this, all last night. I went over everything I need to tell him, created the mental script for everything I need so badly to say, and I went over everything he would say to me, and everything I would answer with. Even so, it didn't prepare me for how intense this would be, because Carl is staring so hard that it's unnerving. But a strange, inquisitive kind that only makes me need to say this all the more.

"I'm gonna try."

"What?" he says slowly.

"I'm gonna try," I say again, starting over, because this has to come out _exactly_ how I'd rehearsed it, "to adjust. I'm gonna bounce back. And I'm gonna be a Runner, but, when I'm not – because I won't be, not all the time, I'll be here, with you, and our friends and family. And, I'll hang out and do chores and play video games and eat potato chips. And, you and I? We're gonna hate and love it at the same time, all muddled and conflicted about it until it starts to feel a little more normal. A little more bearable. Like you said. And, we won't forget how it feels out there, and we won't get weak. Because that isn't us anymore."

Carl's eyebrows twitch together, his lips curving. He nods, waiting, in all honesty looking a little thrown off that I've even come out with all of this so early in the morning.

"And, I'm not gonna hide things just because I think it'll be easier that way," I go on. "I know it's not fair on Carol, your dad, or you... especially you... and I'm sorry for forgetting that." That was what I'd originally planned to say, but I know it isn't true, so I change it. "No, I'm sorry for ignoring that. But I'm not going to anymore. I'm gonna try. And, I can't promise that I won't get kidnapped or lost or shot, or, worse, and I can't promise that I won't ever annoy you again, or that I'll find a way to stop you worrying about me, but, I can promise that I'll never want to escape. Not from here. Not from you, or without you. . . I'm always coming back to you."

I hear the catch of his breath, and I touch his face and wipe the flush of his cheek.

"I'm always coming back for you, Carl."

He looks like he'll cry, and I think he'll say something about it all, maybe: "I hope you mean it," or, "Thank you," or, "You're a dork," but in the end he just says, "I think we should do it now, Oliver."

Taken off guard, I suck in a sudden breath and nod immediately.

"Okay."

"Awesome."

So, while we do do it —our 'okay' and our 'awesome'— I keep on saying it. . . "I'm coming back for you," . . .while we roll around under the bedsheets together as quietly as hysteria will allow, and all he says back is my name. . . "Oliver," . . .like he's breathing _me_ into _me_, and soon the words are falling away from us and we are talking in storms and hurricanes and earthquakes and tsunamis.

* * *

It's not an hour later before the rest of the house is up and preparing for the day.

I'd made a pact to myself a while back that public displays of affection were something that I'd never participate in, and I hadn't intended to break that pact, with anybody, but when that anybody is an anybody boy called Carl Grimes with a mouth as sweet as fresh grapes and hands as hot as fire, all grunty and tuggy and kissing you like you're the sky and he's your sun and rainbows and stars combined. . . PDA is something that's damned near impossible not to give in to. Luckily though, we were smart enough to find somewhere that the risk of getting caught's minimised; we're on the back porch of 102,

"You're coming back."

smashing noses,

"You're. . ."

crushing mouths,

". . .gonna be. . ."

clambering up and tumbling down each other.

". . .back for me."

"Totally, man."

Kissing, kissing, kissing; his grin his throat his collar, until he _gasps_. And then gasps again because —_click— _a camera shot startles Carl and I apart, our hands and lips and thoughts slipping away from the various places they might have found themselves. Penelope is wearing her usual attire; hiking boots, jeans, white T-shirt with a logo on it that I know says _'Fanboy' _and her burgundy coat over it. She peeks through the lens of an old fashioned camera, hiding a massive grin behind it.

"Penelope!" I gasp, cheeks heating up. Carl takes a few breaths and steps away from the wall, reclaiming his brain again and checking for any tents.

"Nice, guys," she giggles, letting the camera drop to her chest and hang from her neck. "Think I got a shot of some tongue action there."

"Perv," I mutter.

"_Pfft_," she scoffs, "don't flatter yourself, Ollie."

"You won't let Aaron see that, will you?" Carl asks worriedly, pressing his fingers over his lips in the same way he always does when he's been caught doing something he probably shouldn't. One time on the road, we'd all stopped at a house with a small grove behind it, and while most of us were inside resting, Carl had volunteered to go out to set up some snares his father had taught him about. To be honest, I should have been able to tell why he was so eager to go alone, and why he'd caught my eyes just as he left, even though I missed it. Regardless, I went out a little while after to find him, curious. I heard something behind some shrubs a little way away and followed the noise. He was grunting. Neglected in the leaves was the string he was going to use for the snares. I heard him groan and tried not to laugh while I said his name. There was a second of gasping and shuffling before he peeked around the trees. He knew I knew what he was doing, by the way he was pressing his fingers over his lips in that way. Caught red handed. He stepped into view.

"It's not what it looks like," he'd said. I looked him up and down, cocked an eyebrow, and said back, "Tell that to what's in your pants," so he rolled his eyes and said, "Whatever, asshole." His cheeks were shining. After a second, I shrugged and said, "I mean, don't stop on my account, man. I just, you know, thought you'd want some help." His face lit up. "With the _snares_," I corrected him, even though I definitely didn't argue while he pushed me against a tree and dropped to his knees in front of me. Unfortunately, though, we didn't get much further than that because his father came to find us. . .

Come to think of it, the majority of Carl's time on the road was spent with his fingers to his lips.

"Are you kidding?" Penelope frowns. "When I develop it the pictures are going straight into Aaron's collection for recruiting, just like the rest, duh."

"Yeah," I laugh sarcastically, only slightly terrified that she's serious, "he'll love to happen across a picture of Carl and I making out while trying to convince some innocent stranger to come live with us."

Penelope shrugs, says, "Least it's promoting equality, right?"

"Penelope," Carl insists. "I'm not kidding. Don't develop that."

"I'm just fucking with you," she says happily, then gives me a look like, _Wait, no, you got there first. _And I give her a look back that says, _Yes. Yes I did. _And Carl punches me in the stomach. When I'm done doubling over, Penelope says to him, "You and me are going to develop them while Oliver's gone. I'll give it to you to keep."

"Thanks," Carl says tensely, but grateful, if not still pretty flustered. He's blinking. I've picked up this way to do a thing while kissing him and it's a little tricky and a lot awesome. He checks for a tent again and I try not to laugh.

Penelope seems to have become somewhat photo-happy ever since Aaron let her use his camera. Aaron and Penelope are fairly close I've noticed, and so he gave her the responsibility to take more photos while he goes out on scouts with Daryl. With her rights to the camera, Penelope has the key to use Aaron's dark room next door to the clinic, too. I only found out about it all this morning, because the moment she came to 101 she took a picture of Rick and Carl while they were by the window in the living room. She wanted a father-son shot, but I didn't realise so I walked across the shot like a moron.

"Did you say bye to everyone else?" Penelope asks.

"About to," I answer.

I'd already said I'd see most of the others later before they left for work, they either wished me luck or told me to break a leg (not literally, hopefully). Carol was late to the Miller's house because she kept hugging me so much. At one point I thought she was going to cry. But she didn't. Just hugged me tighter. I didn't really say anything to Judith because she's only a baby, but I kissed her forehead and called her a _little ass kicker,_ and I said I'd see Rick later before he left earlier this morning for work, too.

Though, before that, while Carl was in the shower, Rick took me aside, and my stomach did that awful thing again where it threatened to empty its contents. We'd spoken briefly about the run yesterday evening. I say _briefly,_ but in truth it was almost a thirty-minute pep talk/lecture about staying safe out there, making sure I listen and follow everything I'm told, always. Only, he didn't talk about was how he actually felt about it, neither did he talk about the argument Carl and I had. So I knew this would be hitting those topics on the head.

"Guess you and Carl figured out your differences yesterday?" he said.

Rather embarrassingly, he'd found us curled up asleep together when he came in to Carl's room to wake him. I hadn't lied, I wasn't tired when I got to Carl's bedroom, but I definitely was after a few minutes with him. Though, in all honesty, Rick didn't seem particularly surprised when I heard him come in, he sort of just sighed and quietly told me to wake up his son, and I'd nodded, not really sure if he thought this was good or bad. He looked... _pensive._ I knew he wasn't particularly happy with me after making Carl so upset, but at the same time I knew he wasn't condemning me for it either, though, in truth Rick usually looks completely terrifying to me anyway, regardless of how much I look up to him.

"Look." He was sat on the desk chair across the room, and I was on Carl's bed, sat on my hands to stop them from fidgeting. "I spoke to Carol, last night. We're both not... enthusiastic, about you goin' out today. And Carl's pretty upset, at you and me both. He won't say it in words," —_To you,_ I thought, _because he sure as hell hasn't stopped telling me_— "but I know it's true. I'm not even alright with you goin' out there, let alone finding any way in hell in lettin' _him_ go out there, too. But you're with Glenn, and Tara, and Noah. And I trust them. And I trust _you_. Even though you're not exactly doin' yourself any favours lately. But, I want you to know that I think you'll do alright out there."

Again, I nodded, and Rick stepped over to me and knelt in front of me and rested his hand on my shoulder. He was still taller than me, but he somehow managed to keep looking straight at me instead of down or up, his head dipped and his forehead was harbouring a hundred wrinkles. Sometimes I want to reach out and flatten them for him. Once I almost _did_.

"I know it's been hard, adjustin'. For you both. And I know it's put y'all in a place that you're not familiar with anymore, and, it'll seem... overwhelming – more than it is out there at times, somehow... Hell, I'm not sure even I understand it all. 'Cause, I'll admit, I do forget it sometimes, too. But we're all here now." He patted my shoulder, and I inhaled. Inhaled the whole world and the stars and the universe. "As much as you can't forget how to survive out there, you can't let yourself forget how to live in here."

"Yes, sir."

Rick patted my shoulder.

"Proud of you, son."

Carl finished his shower then, letting me go in after him.

Right now though, Noah comes out onto the porch, "You ready, man?" he asks, leaning against Penelope when he stops beside her. Despite Penelope being almost as tall as him, bar the inch or so he has on her, it doesn't stop him from attempting to use the top of her head as an arm rest, to which she jerks out of the way and elbows him in the ribcage.

"Yeah," I answer, smirking while he rubs his chest.

"Alright," he says, wincing, "c'mon. We gotta go help load up the Eagle Truck."

"Eagle Truck?" I ask, but Noah just grins, and I look at Penelope, confused and excited, and she just laughs and rolls her eyes, hugging me and mumbling for me to keep safe, before doing the same to Noah.

Carl turns to me, inhaling and pursing his lips.

"See you, Oliver."

We hug.

_I love you, _I think to him, and he thinks back, _You, too._

Over his shoulder, I see Penelope's and Noah's exchange as they finish their hug. Noah sort of does this thing where he quickly (and surprisingly gently) runs his palm down her face, trying to mess with her, and she laughs at him, grumbling for him to knock it off and pulling herself out of his reach, to which Noah grins, and then turns to me and jerks his chin for us to go.

"C'mon, man."

Quickly, I circle around Carl and kiss his lips, cheek, and nape while I pass him, and then squeeze Penelope's hand while I pass her, and then Noah and I join Glenn and Tara around the side of the house to go.

* * *

The Eagle Truck, I soon realise, is a run-down-looking pale brown van parked in Deanna's garage, belonging to Aiden, and it has its name from the giant, brown painted eagle on the side of it. It's actually pretty cool, though, nothing'll ever beat the fire truck.

Aiden is rushing us, tossing around first aid kits and duffel bags and notepads, and Nicholas ordering it all into the truck, leaving room enough to sit. We give them a hand, loading and following instructions until we've got everything, and once Aiden has said goodbye to his parents we all file into the truck. I've got my Glock and knife and my inhaler and everything I need, quickly taking a thick book about addresses that Reg hands to me. "Jus' in case you guys need to find anything."

"Thank you, Mr. Monroe."

Only, he holds the book so that I can't turn away yet, and I stare at him... he grins.

"Knock'em dead, kid."

Before I can stop it, a grin breaks over my face.

"Yes, sir."

With that, he lets go of the book and I climb into the back of the Eagle Truck with Noah, Tara and Glenn, Nicholas climbing into the passenger and Aiden in the driver's.

"Ready for this?" Tara asks me enthusiastically when the engine starts up.

"Yeah. I am."

"If you're not, you'll get us all killed," Nicholas says, not so enthusiastic.

I look away, but I can still feel Aiden watching at me through the mirror. . .

"Jus', don't get us killed, kid."

He flips on the stereo, turns it up before the music starts playing, and then suddenly I am getting violated by some rock band I don't recognise that is loud and drummy with lyrics that scream words I don't understand. I clamp my hands over my ears, grimacing and looking over to Glenn, Tara and Noah, seeing them looking just as disgruntled.

"What the Hell is this?!" Glenn shouts over the noise.

"Runmix!" Aiden answers, like some rich _my-mom-is-in-congress _high schooler in his expensive car with wheels far too big.

"Turn it off!" Tara barks. "You wanna attract every walker in the damned State?!"

Aiden ignores her, driving towards the gates. I take a deep breath, lowering my hands and putting up with the noise, feeling my stomach and nerves trying to dance to the tune in a way that gives me stomach aches. But I'm ready for this, wearily and excitedly, but ready all the same.

* * *

**"Beautiful" by**

* * *

**Carl's POV**

Only Aaron and Penelope have the key for this place. Well, Reg does, too, but he never uses it. So whenever Aaron's gone, it's only ever Penelope that comes here. Eric might come along while we're working but Penelope's put a sign on the door.

On tiptoes, she reaches up and opens a high shelf, bringing down seven dark containers, and it occurs to me how tall she is. Penelope seems to tower like those sky scrapers in Atlanta. She starts setting up the developing stuff.

"It's gotta be dark or the film'll blotch." I'm not sure what that means, but I go with it. She gasps when she opens one container, says, "Awesome! Aaron's already made it."

I take a look at the _'it'. _It looks like water. She looks at me like I'm supposed to react, so I smile wanly, confused, and she settles, apologises awkwardly, then puts the containers back and takes out a different dark container with a label on it that says, _'WORKING SOLUTION'_ in Aaron's handwriting —where the first letters in the words are larger than the rest despite them all being capitalised— I know this from the note he left us in the middle of the road. Still don't know what the _it water _is.

"It's developing water," Penelope explains. "Lucky Aaron made this otherwise this would've taken ages. All we gotta do is get it to the right temperature. But, that'll only take a few minutes. We only got the camera last month."

I remember Aaron telling us, and I also remember my father punching him across the jaw right after.

"This place was another part of the clinic," Penelope speaks again after a little while, "but, figured, you know, not many people get sick here so we used it for a dark room."

_Optimistic,_ I think.

"Aaron's not very good at developing though," she goes on. "He tried to get a group photo of everyone, but he ended up blotching it when we tried to develop."

I frown, confused.

"Blotching's when the photos don't develop right," she says, setting up the tools and equipment and placing the old fashioned camera on the counter next to me. "That time, while the lights were out, Eric didn't realise we were working so he kinda walked in during the process."

I remember the photos of the walls and the suburbs. They were cool.

"Hey, can you get that tub, over in the sink?" Penelope asks.

I go to it. It's full of water and has more containers in it.

"Do you want a hand carrying it?" she asks when I stare into the tub for too long. I was actually thinking that she'd want it emptied, but when I realise I'm wrong I shake my head and carry it over. It takes Penelope a few minutes to prepare everything, setting up the chemicals, placing all the odd objects in the places they need to go. At one point, she looks over her shoulder at me. . .

"You worried about him?"

It's only then that I realise I had zoned out, so I frown and shrug her question off, pointing at the shelf.

"You're just as quiet as Ollie."

I chuckle. I used to make fun of him for it. I didn't realise I was the same.

"Nobody's as quiet as him," I say anyway, "I mean, Ollie—" I catch myself, say, "Oliver, I mean." Penelope doesn't seem to notice.

"Well, you obviously haven't met Enid then," she says.

Defeated, I lean against the counter and purse my lips, remembering Ron saying it took Enid three weeks to even talk when she got here. Finally, Penelope turns to me and says seriously. . .

"This is the part where nothing can go wrong. Got it?"

I nod.

"Wait, what're we doing?"

"I'm going to develop the film. And you, Carl..." She puts a lot of emphasis on my name, taking my shoulders in both hands like some big sister patronising a sibling, then again, she did have a younger sister, Darcy, or Daisy or something. "You are going to stand in the corner and switch the lights off for me. But first, we gotta board up the windows so that it's all dark."

We get to that; fitting large black tarps over the windows and towels at the bottom of door frames to block out sunlight, until only the artificial glow from the lights overhead are left. They flicker at a few points, and we both look up, watching them buzz and blacken and then buzz back on again a few times. I squint for a second, trying not to feel like I'm in the opening credits of a horror movie. The kind where monsters are hiding in the dark. But I'm not afraid of the dark. Once you're around a bad thing for long enough, you get used to it.

"We're running out of electricity," Penelope says, suddenly serious.

I frown worriedly. "But, the solar panels."

"They need new parts," she says. "They'll keep running the important stuff for a while, like lights and cookers and freezers. But we need to maintain them. Stuff to do that's pretty hard to come by sometimes."

"How long is a while?" I ask curiously. In all honesty, not very bothered.

"Well, the lights've been doing that for weeks now. Reg says he's surprised they've even lasted this long. But, I think he's getting worried. Um, the guy from your group, with the mullet? The scientist?"

"He's not a scientist."

"Engineer," she corrects herself, glancing at me a little strangely because my voice was a little curt. I soften my expression. "He's done a little, apparently. But, yeah, I can tell Reg'll probably send the Runners out in a few weeks to get the batteries." She's paused, looking up and staring at the wall ahead of her.

"What?" I ask.

"Oh, uh, nothing."

"No, tell me."

"It's just, last time they went on a run like that, Aiden and Nicholas were the only ones that came back."

I can't help the way my stomach drops, then flips, clenches, and catapults itself in every direction. I have to swallow a few times, resisting the urge to throw up.

"I'm sorry," Penelope says, "I shouldn't have said that. God, I'm so dumb. I... That was a long time ago, they're more experienced now. They know what they're doing and so does your group." I inhale when I realise I had held my breath, looking away from her, and then looking back, nodding a few times as much to convince myself as her. She says, "Okay, you ready?"

"Yeah."

"'Kay, this is gonna take a while. Just don't to walk around or you'll trip over something. Stay by—"

"Stay by the light switch. I won't go anywhere, swear."

"Alright, go ahead."

I flip the switch.

And then, darkness.

Total, utter darkness.

It takes me a moment to realise, but I'm not sure I've ever seen it. Not like this. This dark. No dim shine from the moon like the darkness that I know. Even before the Outbreak, the night hasn't changed. The only thing that has is what's hidden inside it. But now, there's nothing. Not even a slight tiny bit of light like I'd use to follow through the tombs. Only there's everything, too. It's so dark it's colourful. No, really. My eyes are wide and I can see swirls of spectrum, like jamming crayons across a black piece of paper. I don't know how else to explain it.

"It's..."

"Eigengrau."

I almost jump at Penelope's voice, my breath hitching.

"Eigengrau," she says again from the sink, and I can hear her fiddling in the water. "It's the word you're looking for. The word for dark like this. Perfect darkness. So dark it's almost light. So dark you can see colours."

I let out a breath, impressed.

"Oliver told me you liked big words."

"I like words in general," she explains through the perfect darkness —the eigengrau— her smile audible. "They don't have to be big. I just, like how the sounds that leave your mouth can mean so many different things... Horrible things, good things, powerful things. Sad things. Beautiful things." Penelope is like a poem, we all become human blinks around her. She's trailed, so I wait for her to keep talking. "Ollie used to say I was obsessed with words."

"There a word for that, too?"

"Logolepsy."

I snicker.

Her, too.

"How's it coming along?" I ask.

"I can't see."

"Right."

"Won't be too long."

For a few minutes my mind trails to Oliver again, wondering what he's doing right now. Probably rooting through cupboards. Though, before I realise what I'm thinking, I imagine him opening a bedroom door, or walking around a corner, right into the arms of a rotten corpse. I imagine the horror on his expression, the rotten teeth that sink into his throat, and the blood. . .

"Hey," I say, forcing the intrusive thoughts away. I'm sweating.

"You okay?"

"Oh," I nod, forgetting she can't see me. "I mean, uh, oh, do you know where I can find a DVD player?"

"Ron's?" Penelope guesses. "He's got one."

"No, um," I say a little awkwardly, "another one, any spare I could actually have?"

"I think I've got one. Enid and I never use it. You want it?"

"To keep?"

"Yeah."

"Thanks, that'd be great."

"Cool."

"You've got Lord of the Rings, right?" I saw it when we were helping them move their things out of the attick.

"The movies?"

"Yeah."

"You wanna borrow them?"

"That'd be so great."

"Sure," she says, sloshing the water a little. "They were Ollie's favourite, guess that's why you want them, right?"

"Kinda made a deal with him a while back that we'd watch them if we ever got the chance."

"Looks like you can keep your promise."

* * *

While she works, we talk for a while about Noah's surgery and the eigengrau and how Noah's little brothers were afraid of the dark –I make sure she knows I'm not afraid. I tell her that Judith gets afraid of the dark sometimes, if she can't hear us. Penelope says little kids are always scared of the dark, that it's something you either grow out of or learn to ignore. And I ask, "Was your sister afraid of the dark?" and regret it immediately. "Sorry," I say. "I... I was jus' making conversation."

"It's cool."

She sounds like she means it. I lean on the wall, feeling awkward and stupid and blind. The corner of the light switch digs into my shoulder-blade so I readjust, the brilliant imaginary colours swirling and dancing in my vision. When Penelope speaks, I hardly hear her. . .

"Drippy was afraid of everything."

There is a pause and my eyes begin to adjust to the darkness. Or, maybe they don't at all, and I'm just imagining the room around me. Because when I wave my hand in front of my face I swear I can see it, but when I turn and glance at where the table should be beside me, stretching my arm out to it, I don't see the book, and so it slips off the table with a loud bang.

I hear her startle, sloshing the water.

"Sorry."

She mutters something, her breath short and panicky.

"Penelope?"

"You're still by the light switch, right?" she asks quickly.

"Yeah. I just, didn't see the—"

"Please stay there, okay?"

"Penelope?"

A pause, and in it I realise she's afraid of me, so I listen very carefully. Her breath is shaking. . .

"I'm not gonna move," I say, "swear."

"I'm not scared of the dark."

I say nothing, because I know that. She's afraid because I am inside of it.

"I'm not. I'm not, I'm not, I'm not."

"Okay," I reassure. I think of Oliver. How he gets panicky whenever he's in utility rooms or people grab him when he's not expecting it. I don't like when some people bigger than me stand too close, but I'm good at not showing it. I've been able to handle it. But Oliver? He told me things. Once. Things he hadn't ever told anybody before because he couldn't bring himself to. But he told me. He told me how Dan hurt him. That even though it wasn't rape it was other things. Things Oliver couldn't stop or help from happening, and things I had to tell him weren't his fault. . . My skin crawls, like it always does when I think about it. Need light. Light helps. "I'm gonna put the light back on."

"No, no, I got this. I just need a minute."

"Okay," I reply, a little breathless. The room remains silent, no hiccup or weep, not even a breath. It makes me anxious. There are only a few people I feel comfortable with in silence. Oliver, definitely. Dad and Judy, too. Carol, Daryl, Glenn and Maggie and Sasha. I haven't known Penelope long enough to feel comfort in silence like Oliver does with her, so, when it lasts for too long, I say, "I know, that there's bad stuff out there."

She doesn't reply. I think I hear her swallow, or hold her breath, like she's trying not to sob. The silence gets thick, like if I tried to move through it would make me stick like tar.

"I killed a kid," I push. The sentence is still like a rock hanging from a branch, only the branch has grown strong and sturdy to stop itself from snapping. "Killed my mom a few weeks before, same day Judith was born. And, little while before we got here, some asshole tried to rape me. Oliver, too."

"Okay, okay."

"We've been through it. We know how bad it is."

"Stop." She doesn't so much say it as choke it. "Stop, please."

I sigh softly and wait long enough for her breath to settle in volume, but it doesn't settle in pace, so I say, very quietly, "It's over now. It's gone. Me and Oliver only want—"

That's when she marches at me. I blanch, pushing myself against the wall and grunting as the edge of the table jostles with a loud screech. I anticipate her shout, or maybe even her shove. But she stops directly in front of me. I can hear her breath, puffing my fringe backwards.

"Can you see me?!"

I shake my head, half thinking that _she_ can see _me_.

"No," she answers for me. She isn't crying. She's furious. "No, you _can't_. Doesn't mean I'm not still here!"

"What're y— _nyuh!_"

Something suddenly presses over my forehead, not a hit, just an abrupt pressure, and I only realise it's her hand when I swat it away. The ends of her fingers brush my hair and fingers, and then she pulls away and steps back.

"I'm sorry," I say, desperate to calm her down. I'm not trying to upset her and I'm definitely not trying to threaten her, so I don't understand why she's gotten so aggressive. It doesn't make sense. "I'm sorry."

"Just because you didn't see it doesn't mean that it's not there – that it didn't happen." She's talking through gritted teeth. I imagine her like a wolf, holding back from taring my throat out. "Just because I don't talk about them, or what happened, doesn't mean I don't think about them. It doesn't mean they're all not still here. It's not over. It's not gone. It _never_ will be."

I try to edge away from her, but I jolt something smooth and it smashes to the floor. It startles her. I don't say anything, blind, my breath coming in shrill repetition, unable to catch it and feeling like there could be a gun pointed between my eyes right now for all I know.

"I..." She has to start over. "I wanna tell you. What happened."

I swallow, whisper, "You can. Swear."

She's possibly nodding because there's shuffling. She says, "Okay. Okay..." But Penelope starts muttering, whimpering sounds that don't make sentences. "I can't."

"Come on," I spare her. "Where's the light switch?"

"N-no," she pleas, her voice breaking. "Don't turn on the light. It'll ruin the film."

"To hell with the stupid film!" I hiss, reaching frantically along the walls. I need to see the world around me again. I feel like a deaf slug crossing a highway. In my head, the room is full of walkers, or spikes that I'm about to walk into like the street Morgan booby trapped.

Right now, I'm afraid of the dark.

I hear her crumple to the floor. Glass cracks.

"Careful," I insist, hands outstretched. I walk back towards her, wincing at the crunches under my shoes. I catch the faux on her coat hood against my palm, a few locks of her short hair brushing the ends of my fingers.

Penelope flinches.

"I'm sorry," I withdraw my hand, "I didn't mean to touch you."

"I can't."

"It's okay."

"I can't say it."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Can you sit with me," she asks. "I need to just... sit."

We sit together in the middle of the dark room. I brush away parts of glass I can find, careful not to sit close enough to touch our shoulders. My legs are crossed and I can hear her move to sit something similar, and after a long while her breathing normalises, mine too, and we're just sat, breathing and thinking and waiting not to be afraid anymore.

"Ten."

She's actually rested her head on my shoulder now, which we both made sure we didn't react over, and my eyes were closed. In the darkness I couldn't even tell. I keep quiet until she speaks again.

"Drippy was ten when I killed her."

That's all she says before standing up and returning to the sink.

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

Turns out, I didn't get them killed.

The run went fine, actually.

The suburb had already been looted, and overall we only came across a handful of walkers. We got the things we wanted in the time we needed to do it. In one of the houses over from the one we were looting, I saw a girl in a window, and for a strange moment I thought it was Enid. I even grinned, astounded that she'd ventured out so far from Alexandria —almost three miles. I even waved. But the girl shoved herself against the window and growled.

It's around noon.

I hand my Glock in to Olivia's and head back home. Inside 102, quietly, I leave my rucksack by the pantry. No one's home. I guess they're all out at work or wherever else, just like I was, I guess. I'm kicking off a shoe, blinking something out of my eye and half tripping over myself, when something collides with my spine.

I'd heard the footsteps, barely managed to turn and see who it is, and then I'm falling forward, splaying my hands out in front of me to catch myself. Only I don't hit the floor. I'm taken almost completely off of my feet. I grip the arms wrapped around my middle and laugh my brains apart. . .

"Hey, man."

Carl doesn't say anything, just hugs me tighter, bunching his shoulders against my shoulder-blades. He buries his face into my spine and hums, like he couldn't let go even if he wanted to. He must have only just gotten back, too, because he'd come through the door after me and he's holding a small collection of develops. He pulls me to turn around, abruptly and desperately, and we stare at each other. I can feel the heat coming off of his body, his breath fast and uncontrollable, puffing my hair away from my face. He must've been running. I bite my lip and jerk my chin in challenge, and when our lips come together our kisses are urgent, our bodies starved, and he's pulling me towards the staircase.

"Where's everyone else?"

It's hard to talk when your mouth is busy with someone else's. Carl answers by shaking his head, which makes kissing him hard so I hold it still. Super still. Super still so I can super kiss his whole super face super off all super day.

"I don't have another run for a few days." It's amazing how you do the opposite of what you want to do sometimes. "I'll go to school with you and the others." In that second he drops the developed paper and grips my hair. I gasp. Gasp and gasp and gasp. My face is drawn up but I'm looking down to see him. He kisses my throat and I fall off the edge of the world. "I'll try," I'm still talking. "I will, Carl."

"I'm so" —His voice comes out thick and cracked, almost a whine— "so, so glad you're okay."

We're stumbling up the staircase and hitting walls and elbows and knees, pulling and yanking and dragging and kissing. I yelp when his knee collides with my shin.

"Sorry."

"Sh."

_Yes, shh, dummy, shh now, there's too many parts of your skin that I can see but am not kissing._

"How was every..." He does a thing that makes me die. "Everything?"

"Good," I gasp. We get to my door, and he's pinned me against it, mumbling things that I can't even understand. "Good," I say anyway, forgetting what we're even talking about while I rush frantically to twist the handle. "Really good, Carl."

I hadn't anticipated how much I'd miss him, even though it was only a few hours that I'd been gone. But I do. Maybe it's because this morning could have been the last time we'd ever seen each other, because it could have, which is kind of completely terrifying.

"You're so good."

We both clamber inside. We roll across the walls until my back is pressed against one and he is pressed against me, and then suddenly I'm airborne and wrapped around him. I tangle my hands and laughter together through his hair, and there's an earthquake in my body that I have no control over.

"You're so, so good."

My eyes are closed, but I suddenly realise I have to see this. To see him. His eyes and his body and all the secrets only I know about. . .

But that is not what I see when I open my eyes.

"OH FUCK!"

I almost scream over Carl's shoulder, shoving him away to let me go so fast he thinks he's hurt me. I curse while I clamber to my feet, horrified. He tries to say my name but I'm shaking my head, grabbing his shoulders and shoving him to look, dying with embarrassment.

"No- No-"

Carl's expression drops, spinning on the spot. He suddenly yelps. "Noah!"

He waves at us, black eyebrows climbing to his hair line. . .

"Hi, guys."

"Shit." I wince, mortified, still only with the one hiking boot on. "Oh my God."

Noah is sat on his bed with his back to the wall, staring at us over a book. It's August. I finished it a few days ago. My cheeks burn, setting alight to the whole house, and I have to cover the lump in my jeans with my hands. He dips his head and looks back to his book, as if he isn't surprised at all.

"How's it goin'?" he asks August. Carl and I are mute, and in the awkward silence that follows after Noah's question, I feel like I'm about to pass out. Noah looks up, closing the books. "I should go."

I clamber over words that have no sentence behind them.

"I mean, I only just got back. I'll leave you to it."

"We're not." I wince as I speak. "I mean, um. We didn't mean to barge in."

". . . Yeah."

_Oh, man. . . Ohh man!_

"Well, I think I'm gonna go anyway." Noah stands up, leaving August on the bed. "Thanks for your help on the run today by the way. You did well, man."

I nod stiffly, my head rolling from side to side as he pats my shoulder and walks past. I almost stagger away from him, too much blood pumping around every crevice of my body to appreciate any type of physical contact of any kind anymore, especially from him.

"I'm off to the clinic," he says, undeterred, completely.

"For your surgery?" Carl manages.

Noah nods. "Said I'd find Nell first."

"Right," I say, "uh, have fun."

Noah's eyebrows fling themselves skyward, "Yeah. . . uh, you too, guys."

I'm not sure if I want to scream at him or burst out laughing.

Noah nods to Carl and is then leaving the house. I'm not sure how long I stare at my bedroom door for after Noah is gone. Long enough for any excitement that had built a moment ago to be shattered and depleted completely. Long enough for my cheeks to stop hurting, though, they aren't going back to their normal colour any time soon. Carl lets out a long, tense breath, both of us exchanging a glance that immediately expresses how horrifyingly off-putting that just was. I rub the back of my neck uncomfortably, wincing and leading the way out of my bedroom. Carl hesitates, but eventually follows me downstairs. Just while we're picking up the photos he'd dropped before, Carol returns.

**_Maybe it was lucky Noah was there. _**_  
I don't think anything about what just happened could be considered 'lucky'. **  
Would've been worse if Carol had walked in on you right now.**_

My skin cringes.

"Oliver," she says, exhaling in relief. She pulls me in for a hug but I give her my shoulder just in case of a tent. "How was the run?"

"Fine," I answer succinctly. I'm not really focussed on her. I'm looking past her, watching Carl, who is stood by the door. His eyes are locked on mine and his eyebrow is up expectantly, because he hasn't yet abandoned the activities he had planned for us. . .

I frown at him.

He frowns back, only not just that. He looks me up and down and bites his lip, and then he puts his hands up behind his head and flexes, stretching his back enough that his shirt rides up and he groans softly. His frown has turned to a smirk and my mouth goes dry.

_Jesus Christ..._

"Coming?" he asks me.

I nod and nod and nod. I mean, who am I to refuse? I've stepped around Carol even though I think she may have been talking to me.

"Um, we'll see you later, Carol," I say.

"Oh," she glances between us, "you going to get food?"

At the same time, Carl nods and I shake my head. It blows our cover immediately. Carl is able to keep up his nonchalance, with a pat on my chest, telling me, "Oh yeah, man, we're getting food before we go hand out with the others." Carol almost buys it, but when she catches my eyes I avert them, swallow, and my cheeks are red and I'm stuffing my hands in my pockets too hard. The offended-amusement spreads over her expression like wildfire.

Her hip pops out.

"Have either of you eaten?"

It was a question, but it came out a warning. Carl and I take the hint. My stomach is squirming with embarrassment and I'm thinking this is so unfair; getting caught twice. I mean, how much more embarrassment can someone endure in one day?

"C'mon next door, look after Judith," she says, pretending not to notice our horror as she leads the way outside. "I'll make you both something to eat."

Carl looks at the dishwasher like he wants to hide inside of it. I sling an arm over his shoulders, knocking the back of his knee so that he almost stumbles. When he glares at me I widen my eyes back, telling him to shut up and to go with it. For a moment the look on his face makes me wonder if he'll grab me and order I pull my pants down right here, but he doesn't, obviously. Instead he sighs in defeat and half-heartedly kicks my heel. I laugh at him, and the two of us follow Carol to 101.

* * *

It feels like I hadn't even gone.

I'm back in 101. My stomach is full and my boots are by the door and Lizzie's knife is hidden in Car's room (since I don't keep it in case Noah finds it). I am sat on the inglenook of the fireplace playing with Judith. Carl's smirking at us while I attempt to de-tangle my beanie from an iron-baby grip. We're also looking through the developed photos.

My favourite is definitely the one from this morning, however R-rated it is.

"Oh. That store?" I say, looking over my shoulder.

"Yeah?" Carl says. He's led on his back along the couch, throwing Daryl's lighter a few feet above his face and catching it (Daryl must have left it). Carol's gone next door, now that I'd explained what happened on the dry-run to her over lunch, so now it's just us and Judith for a while.

"Guess what I found for you?" I say to him, giving up mine and Judith's wrestling match.

"What?" Carl asks. I hear him sit up while I fish into the pocket of my coat on the floor under the couch. I pull out a packet of M&amp;M's and hand them up to him. Carl laughs and grabs me and hugs my head. I grin, jostling away from him.

Judith crawls over to have a look so Carl splits the packet open and makes to give her a few.

"Won't she choke on them?" I ask worriedly.

"We'll just keep an eye on her."

He hands her one. Judith sort of just stares at the yellow candy piece in her palm, giving Carl time to pour a handful into mine, too. I stuff them all into my mouth immediately. My taste buds cry out, only it's me and I'm groaning and moaning and chewing and wincing. I cry the word, "Chocolate," so passionately Carl's jaw drops.

I laugh at him.

He closes his mouth and says, "Better not be stale this time." He pours himself some. Judith had watched me eat, so, mimicking my example, she brings her M&amp;M to her mouth and attempts to gnaw on it. I roll my eyes and help her, prodding it so that she actually puts it in her mouth, and after the look of complete offence she gives me, she starts chewing, and chewing, and chewing and chewing. When she's done she eagerly takes Carl's second offer.

"Aren't you going to have any?" I insist, grabbing a few more.

Very cautiously, Carl puts an M&amp;M in his own mouth, chewing. Suddenly, he grimaces and snatches the packet from me. . .

"Peanuts?"

I stutter a moment. "Wh... what, yeah. They were all I could find."

"_Peanuts_."

Confused, I frown, them my stomach drops and I look at his sister. "Judy's not allergic, is she? No, she can't be, she ate pecans—"

"Who the heck puts peanuts in M&amp;M's? _Stale_ M&amp;M's."

Carl looks disgusted.

I scoff, then laugh, then roll my eyes and eat some more.

"Jesus, man. I thought I'd poisoned your sister," I grumble. "God, at least I found you some damn chocolate."

"Whatever." I can imagine Carl narrowing his eyes at me, and after a moment he sighs through his nose, chewing grudgingly over the stale nutted M&amp;M's.

I say, "I thought you liked nuts."

And he says back, "I like your nuts."

"Grimes!"

Quickly, Carl shuffles off of the couch and kneels in front of me, and in a flash, he snaps back the lighter gear and a single flame comes up between us. I go cross-eyed to look at it, then I look at him and swallow.

"You know," he says in a low voice that knocks my soul out-cold, "it's kinda _hot_ when you call me that."

My mouth doesn't fall open because it's already hanging. He clicks the flame shut, then closes my mouth with his palm under my chin. He touches my lip with his thumb then draws his hand away. It pulls my mouth gently and I become a teenage-boy-puddle.

"We should go f—"

"Judith, cover your ears!" I cry. She just blinks at me, and when she realises I was talking to her she squeals and extends her hands, grabbing at me for more attention, so I grant it, giving Carl a glare and trying to ignore my red cheeks.

"Too many hormones," I criticize. "I'm going to drown."

Carl smirks and eats the last few M&amp;M's, regrets it immediately. He throws the packet in the trash. He looks more serious when he returns. He leans down and quickly kisses the top of my head, then slumps down on the couch again.

"Thanks for the stale M&amp;M's, Ollie."

For what must be the hundredth time today, my mouth falls open.

"No." Carl suddenly sits bolt upright. "No. No, no-no-no. I didn't mean to say that!"

I burst out laughing.

"Hey!" he frowns, blushing more. "Shut up, Oliver – Oliver, see?"

I don't stop laughing, having to brace myself before I double forward into Judith, who stares at me like she's worried about how many marbles I have left.

"It was an accident!" Carl growls. "Penelope's contagious."

I laugh harder, but I stop when Carl doesn't.

"We were talking today," he says, "I actually gotta talk to you about it. About her." Carl pushes himself down and takes a seat on the floor opposite me, our legs crossed, knees touching. "I went with her to develop the pictures."

"How'd they come out?"

"Yeah, fine. But, that's not it."

I wait.

"She..." He has to stop. "We talked. She told me something about her sister."

My focus intensifies. "Drippy?"

He nods silently.

"What'd she say?"

"She got upset," Carl answers, putting Judith on his lap when she starts trying to climb up his back. "Really, really upset. I... I didn't know what to do, so, we didn't do anything. We just, sat on the floor, in the dark. After a while she..."

"She what?" I ask. "Did she tell you what happened?"

He takes a deep breath like he's bracing himself, but he sighs it out slowly, like he's unbracing. "She just got up, carried on with the film."

"Come on, man." I know he's lying. "No fair."

Carl inhales carefully. "She said that Drippy was ten, when she, uh... When she died."

Pensively, I rest my head in my hand and think.

"She was nine when the Outbreak happened," I say. "Drippy. And her birthday wasn't for another six or seven months. She must've stayed alive at least until then. So, maybe Enid met her. If she came along before that, if she knew Penelope for that long. But, I don't kn—"

"I don't think you should try to figure it out anymore."

I blink.

"I don't think you should ask her about it anymore," Carl adds in my silence. "She's... broken. Really, really. I jus'... I think it's something that you need to leave alone now."

For a long time, I just sort of stare at him, thinking, taking in what he's said. Finally, I smile, then lean forward and plant a kiss on his forehead. Carl's eyebrows arch, squinting when I pull away to look at him. Judith reaches up and pokes my chin.

"Is that a _'Yes I promise, Carl'_?" he asks doubtfully.

I sort of shrug and smile and nod at the same time. Carl sighs.

"Look, I know I said before that you should talk to her. But..."

"It's okay," I interrupt him. "I get it... I'll let it go."

He nods approvingly, then takes my hand.

There's something about holding someone else's hand that I can't quite get enough of. I mean, it's not just _anyone's _hand, obviously. His hand. Only Carl's hand seems to make my whole body feel like it's trying to dissolve right through of itself. The way his palm is always rough and callused and warm, pressing against my palm, and his fingers are cooler, though just as callused as the rest. They're weaved between mine and every once in a while, they squeeze my whole hand. Then there's his thumb. Jesus. His thumb is all source of life, I think. It strokes the back of my own and tells my whole boy it's the best even though no thumbs can talk but his. Our hands fit together like they were built to.

"Well done for today," he whispers.

"Thanks, man."

Rick walks through the open side-door, spotting the three of us sat in front of the couch on the floor. In any other circumstance he'd probably make some comment about us refusing to use furniture properly again, but he smiles, sighing with relief.

"Oliver, how'd it go?"

"Fine," I answer. Rick walks over, and Carl hands Judith up to him.

"Why don't you both go on, find your friends. Think I saw Mikey and Ron around a little while ago. Can y'all go next door and ask Carol if she wants me to cook tonight?"

"Sure," Carl says, and the two of us head to 102 together, hand in hand.

Carol was scribbling something into her notebook when we go inside, and Carl asks her about supper tonight like his father wanted, and she tells us that she'll go over soon and talk to him about it anyway. So Carl and I make to leave, go find Penelope first, but that is the moment the very girl turns around the staircase with a basket of laundry under her arm.

"Oh," she sees Carl and I. "Hey, boys."

Apparently, hers and Carl's experience together earlier is making eye contact between them difficult, so, unlike usual, I am who breaks the quiet. . .

"Are you... doing our laundry?"

"Yeah," Penelope says, puckering her lips slightly. "Um, she wanted a hand, so..."

I cock an eyebrow. Carol doesn't say anything, possum smiling back at me. Penelope goes into the utility room to stuff the clothes into the washing machine.

"She came over looking for you," Carol says when Penelope won't hear. "Guess we got a little distracted."

"We'll go," I say, guessing that Carol kind of wants us to.

"No, no, it's fine," she says, as if she's only just thinking about it. "We've, actually, had a nice time. I mean, haven't really talked much, but still."

"Noah'll be in his surgery now," I say. "She's probably been worried."

"Seems it's our common interest."

I have enough time to furrow my eyebrows in confusion at her before Penelope walks back in, putting the empty basket by the back door on the chest.

"How did the run go?"

"Good," I answer her, figuring I can tell her more later. "Noah's in his op now, right?"

She nods to me, looking nervous and a little excited. "Yeah. Should be over in a few hours."

"Thanks for the photographs," I say.

She nods. "You know the one of Rick and Carl this morning?"

"Yeah."

"You didn't ruin the shot," she tells me, "there's just an Oliver-shoulder on the right."

I laugh. "Cool."

"You wanna come find the others with us?" Carl asks her.

Quietly, she nods.

* * *

Nicholas is an asshole.

Jessie said Ron was at Mikey's. Nicholas answered the door.

"What?"

"Hello, uh, is Mikey in?"

"No," Nicholas answered, frowning like usual. He shot us a glare that made me and Carl hide our linked hands between us. I'm still not sure why he hates me so much. I think it's mostly because I run with him now.

"Oh," Penelope said, "okay. He's probably at mine."

Nicholas nodded, still frowning. He wanted us to leave and none of us were opposed to this idea, but he had to say something. . .

"Look, I get, that you and your friends come over here and use my pool table sometimes, and I've been reasonable about it, okay? But I'd appreciate it if you could at least put everything back the way you found it."

Penelope frowned, but nods. "Sorry. We thought we did."

"No," Nicholas snapped. "You didn't. You left the pool cues on the table."

"That's where we found them," Penelope said.

"Well, they go on the wall in their stands," Nicholas snarled at her. He saw me broaden my shoulders, ad even though he probably wasn't intimidated, he was definitely irritated enough to scoff and slam the door closed on all three of us.

"That was terrifying," Penelope mumbles as we walk away.

"Isn't he, like, your co-boss?" Carl asks me, looking a little shell shocked. I nod grudgingly. Penelope winces, running her hands over her short hair.

"He scares me," she says. "But, he's helped us here, so..."

_So what?_

Penelope sighs, then smirks, suddenly mischievous and cocky. "How're you both liking the empty houses?"

"Huh?" I say, feigning nonchalance.

"You know, you don't have to lie to me," Penelope says, rolling her eyes and skipping along slightly. "Plus, you can use me as insurance."

"Wait, what're you talking about?" Carl asks.

"You know, when you go over there, you can say you were at mine. Enid and I'll keep your secret."

"There?" I say, giving a millisecond glance of panic to Carl, which he reciprocates. "Where _there_?"

Penelope frowns. "The empty house. That's what Enid said. That's where you go, right?"

Carl suddenly narrows his eyes, "You're bluffing."

"Sure I am, Carl."

Carl and I have been to the empty house twice since the first time, finding quiet enough times to sneak over there without anyone catching us. And it's just us. No one had seen us leave.

"Wh—" Carl stutters. "How'd you—"

"No," I interrupt. "How did _Enid_ know?"

"Don't you know?" Penelope grins. "Enid's got special _powers._ She knows everything."

_Of course she does._

* * *

Ron, Mikey and Enid were nowhere to be found. Penelope had a hunch that they'd probably found another empty house somewhere and were setting up all of their things in there, and reading us like a book, she reassured that Enid wouldn't be malicious enough to use the same empty house that Carl and I have sort of taken to, even though we hadn't confessed to the empty house in words.

We were going to search for them, Enid, Ron and Mikey, but we ran into Rosita, who was looking for us, and told us that Noah's operation had finished. So that's where we are now, in the clinic, Pete, Carl, Penelope, Tara, Rosita, Glenn, Carol and I.

He's pale, breath steady and slow and soft. Tara has his hand, running her thumb over the back of it, and Noah's eyes begin to flitter behind their lids. Pete watches him, checking over a few things that I don't understand enough to explain. His surgery went well, apparently, as it was only something to do with the tendons in his messed up leg that I, again, am in no way able to explain. "A little snip here, a small tweak there, all very simple," Pete elaborated. We all just looked at him like he was speaking gibberish, though, I think Rick looked more like he was trying not to slap him now that I think about it.

"Noah?"

Slowly, the eight of us watch him emerge out of his sedation. I hear Penelope's breath hitch in her throat, and I squeeze her hand, only just realising that she'd taken it, or, I'd taken hers. I didn't even realise how much Noah means to me. It's funny how it sometimes takes seeing someone in a hospital bed to realise how much you love them.

His eyes open, blinking, dark brown lazily swooping around the room, focussing on his company. He's sees Pete first, frowning drowsily while he checks his vitals, pulling his eyes open and checking his pupil dilation and asking if he can feel his leg, and Noah groans at him and wiggles his toes, causing all of us to grin and breathe a sigh of relief. Pete moves away and leaves to the kitchen.

Noah looks at his hand, following the one attached to it to Tara and smiling floppily at her.

"Hey."

Tara almost cries. "Hey, noob."

Glenn greets him next, taking his shoulder and gripping it firmly. We all take turns to go and say hello to him. Noah smirks at me when he sees me. . .

"Where's your other half, kid?"

I frown at him, wondering if he really has the audacity to hold a grudge against me from what he'd witnessed before. But Noah's expression falls, like he'd just realised something important, and he looks around a little frantically. But then looks back at me. His eyes are wet.

"Sorry, Oliver."

"It's okay, man," I say, because I have no idea what else _to_ say.

"Thought you were my brother, too."

I'm taken aback at first, not understanding what he's talking about. But then I remember. He's talking about the day I woke up from my coma in Grady. When I came to, Noah was the only one in the room and I saw him over in the corner washing his hands in the sink. I thought I was back home in Lorton, a little kid, leant on the bathtub brushing my teeth while I ran myself a bath.

"Pat?" I said, wondering why I felt like I was lying down, furthermore, wondering why my voice was croaky and rough, and why my mouth felt like it was full of sandpaper, though, failing to notice that my brother seemed to have dark skin and curly black hair instead of olive skin and short brown hair. "Quit hogging the water."

Noah'd turned to me in the hospital room, the sunlight from the window making me dizzy and thick and delusional, and his eyes widened in the same moment that he spoke. . . "Carol?" It was more like a moan or murmur, like his voice was still over by the sink washing his hands without the rest of him, but he caught up with himself. "C-CAROL!"

I recognised her name, but even when she rushed into the room, wincing from her injuries after the car crash and her bridge fall with Daryl, I still thought she was my mother, and I reached out to her, clung to her when she hugged me, but I couldn't cry or talk anymore because everything else came back to me just fast enough that I didn't embarrass myself.

I guess something similar just happened to Noah, too, thinking of his brothers, twins, each other's half.

"It's okay, man," I say again, though, I probably didn't need to say anything at all. Because it's only then that I realise Noah isn't really paying any attention to me anymore anyway. . .

"Nell."

"Hey," she grins at him.

I step away to Carol and Carl. At first, Penelope and Noah just sort of watch each other. Noah's smiling goofily and Penelope takes a seat beside him on the chair, looking at the IV drip that he is hooked up to for a moment, reading its label, because, after all, she is Penelope. Then Noah lifts his hand, raising it towards her face, and she looks at him again, for a moment looking like she'll jerk backwards and frown at him for it like she did on the porch this morning, but she doesn't, instead she just smiles, shuts her eyes, and lets him gently touch his index and pinky finger to each of her eyelids. It lasts a second, and then he drops his hand.

In all honesty, the affectionate exchange between the two is about the sweetest thing I've seen all day, but I don't voice my opinion, instead just sort of dip my head and smirk to myself as Penelope gets up from her seat and tells him she'll be back later.

"Okay."

* * *

**Notes**

_If you're reading this then you've just read the re-edited version of this chapter since the originally posted one that most people read. I changed something, and instead of saying that Nell's sister just died, I said that Nell killed her, so, to you reading, it's kind of a secret xD oops._

PEANUTED M&amp;M'S ARE EVIL! EVIL I _AND _CARL TELL YOU! EEEEVIIIIL!

I figured that I might as well fix Noah's leg before he dies a horrible, scarring, terrific death. :I Thanks for all of you guys who wanted Carl to call Oliver, Ollie. That part was just for you! It was too weird getting him to call Oliver that intentionally though, so that's probably as much as you'll get.

I'm not sure if anyone else noticed, but in the finale, when that Wolf looks through Aaron's stuff and finds the photo of Rick and Carl, there really was a shoulder on the right side of it. I think it was Glenn's, but in this it was a clumsy Oliver-shoulder :)

**Preview: Despite his heroics this chapter, Pete begins to show his true colours. Carl and Oliver get to doing that _normal teenager _stuff, joining the Alexandria kids in their right to be the most stereotypical teenagers in the world for a little while.**

BELOW IS AN IMPORTANT MESSAGE. To me at least. I'm not sure about you now that I think about it :D

This is where hiatus starts :D

I'm going pretty far away for the next two months, and I'm super, freaking, brick-shittingly terrified. I will check in on this site every once in a while when I find a dry and warm and quiet and alone enough place. I'll read stories, review, reply to all of your reviews and messages and try not to die. And I'll miss writing though, so much. I'm going on holiday to live with my heavily religious side of the family... so... what with their particularly intense,_"we don't support"_ views, they would probably burn me at stake for writing this (among other things). But yeah. Know that Oliver and I love you all dearly and that we will be back by of August.

LOVE YOU ALL!

Have a great Summer, and thank you so much for letting me share this fanfiction series with you all, and for all of the support. You are all so amazing and unique and flawless and beautiful and incredible gay lovers!

Okay?

Okay.

Bye, guys. Stay sempiternal. See you soon. X

As always,  
Happy reading :D


	19. The Beaver, the Snake and the Bumble Bee

**BloodGutsandChocolatePudding **Haha, thank you so much.

**DarthGranola **Thank you x I did!

**The Flash Fanatic **Thank you!

**TheDarkerSide123 **Ha, good to hear from you xx

**French Manderine **Hello! I don't know when or if you'll ever read this since, but if you do, your comment was awesome. I can't believe how long it took you. It means so much, thanks! You're awesome! xxx

* * *

**HAPPY BIRTHDAY DARTHGRANOLA! Pretty late due to jet-lag. BUT HAPPY LATE BIRTHDAY! I HOPE YOU HAD AN AMAZING DAY!**

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

"Wait, so... _what_ happened, Oliver?"

I'd come across Rick on my way back to 102. He's on duty. I just got _off _duty.

"And why're you holdin' your shoe?"

"Oh, well..."

My wrist is swollen and my ankle is band-aided.

"There was a beaver damn," I explain, "in a river, and me and Tara didn't realise it was occupied. A beaver came at us. I fell. Got wet. Then a snake bit me." The ankle. "After Tara got it off, we found the others and I got stung by a bee." My wrist. "Uh. Yeah. H-hey, Tara, shut up."

She's laughing her ass off. The _"kch-kch-kch!"_ kind. I'm laughing too but I still have a right to be pissed off at her about it. Rick asks me to show him my injuries, both fairly small to be honest.

"Y'alright?" he asks me.

"Yeah," I answer. "The other doctor gave me aloe-Vera cream and Band-Aids. Just kinda hurts now... and, you know, it's embarrassing."

He's grinning, bumping Tara's fist as she leaves to go to drop off some things at the clinic for Noah. I saw him this morning. His surgery was three days ago. He went home on the second day but his leg started swelling and turned odd colours, until finally last night he was hurting so badly I had to go get Pete. Noah went back to the clinic and Pete gave him stronger antibiotics, and now Noah is healing again, thankfully.

"What kinda snake?"

"Garter," I reply Rick. "Harmless. I just... annoyed it. The Beaver, too, and the bee."

Rick laughs. "How was target practice?"

That was what we'd originally been doing out there at the abandoned farm house a few miles outside of Alexandria. Aiden and Nicholas practice there sometimes, and asked us along.

"We'd been using BBs, mostly, then at the end we'd used a rifle."

"But the noise," Rick says.

I'd said the same thing to Aiden at the time. We'd already been causing a lot with the pellets; hitting cans, frying pans, bottles, broken spades and whatever else we'd found. At my hesitation Aiden pushed the rifle against my chest and said, "That's why I left the rifles for last. We can get out of here before anything shows."

Tara said, "Or anyone."

And I looked at Glenn, because, to me, Glenn, out of us all, is who is most qualified to call the shots. Aiden didn't appreciate my search in authority elsewhere. But Glenn nodded, so I relented and took the shot.

I tell Rick, "It didn't last long," remembering the _CRACK!_ of my bullet as it obliterated the phone-book and the air filled with exploding yellow paper, like confetti, or some kind of radioactive bird detonating like an atomic mushroom cloud. Glenn and Tara cheered, but it was clear that their impress wasn't rubbing off on the Alexandrians.

"Carol was a good teacher," Rick tells me, and I smile.

"Inhale. Exhale. Brace for the kick back," I recite proudly. Admittedly, the BB guns didn't pack much of a punch, but—"helped with the rifle."

"I taught her that."

I grin. Rick grins, too.

"D'you use the new targets?"

"Yes, sir."

The latest addition to the target collection are several painted wooden planks. Carl, Mikey, Ron and Enid painted them yesterday with Jessie's acrylics on the grass behind Ron's house, while Penelope and I clipped Bean's nails in front of their garage. Bean wasn't cooperating, at all. Penelope had to hold him down with her arms and legs, while I attempted to grab a paw and clip without hurting him. We were almost done, the others too with their painting, sneering at us in our struggle. "Don't knock over the owl sculpture," Ron warned us. And then Bean wrenched himself from our grip, knocking over the paint and flinging himself across the wet targets. Everyone apart from Penelope and I were covered in red, orange, yellow and white, like some kind of patriotic Alexandrian flag attempt or something. Carl still has paint in his hair. The mix of all different colours made for a rather magnificent shade of peach.

"How is your shift?" I ask Rick politely.

"Good. Fighting crime, all that," Rick answers, grinning, and I'm amazed by how totally relaxed he is, though, well aware that he'd switch right back to deadly in a heartbeat if needed. "Nah, it's quiet," he admits, "like usual, mostly jus' talking. Listening to people go on about their missing frying pans."

I make an _'ah' _noise.

"Your friends came over a while ago," Rick changes subject. "Carl left with'm all. They'll be somewhere around. Jessie's, probably."

I nod, only just realising that I'd been sucking my wrist, frowning at the pain there. Stupid bee. Stupid snake. Stupid beaver.

"Did you miss school?"

I nod. "Just today though. Carl's gonna go over what I missed later."

"Good," he says, meaning it. "Don't stay out too late today, alright?"

"'Kay," I say, not meaning it, and by the way Rick narrows his eyes at me he knows it, too.

* * *

Ron is alone inside his kitchen, crouched at the foot of the pantry with an unlit cigarette tucked behind his ear. Using the toe of my sneaker, I nudge his shoe.

"_OHMYGOD!_"

He swings around instantly and crumples down into a ball at the pantry door, barely stopping himself from having a damned heart attack. I, too, stagger backwards, catching myself with an embarrassing clamber across a chair I knock over. "Jesus _fuck,_ Ron!"

"God, Oliver!" he cries, emerging from the cocoon he's made with his arms. "Ever heard of _knocking!?_"

"I forgot!" I say, pulling at my beanie and wincing at the stabbing sensation in my stung wrist.

"Well, believe it or not it's a thing people still do!"

I'm laughing.

"Sorry, man."

He sighs, and then starts laughing, too, and once he picks himself up from the floor and stops freaking out —which takes a lot of hand-raking through his own hair to do it— he just goes back to rooting for whatever he needs so desperately.

"Holler if you hear anyone."

I frown, but obediently go and stand at the kitchen doorway.

"What are you doing anyway?"

"_I_ am looking," he answers me. "_You_ are keeping watch."

"Why?"

"Dad'll kill me if he catches us."

_Us, _I think, and frown because Ron didn't actually answer me.

"What _are_ we doing?" I insist. "Where are the others?"

"We found another house – few blocks away in the brownstone," he answers, distracted. The brownstone apartments are near the East gate, near the solar panels. "Everyone's over there waiting."

This still doesn't answer my first question.

"Ron, what're... we..." I trail, because it is in this moment that Ron crosses the kitchen to me. He leans forward, suddenly sticking the top of his head in my face. I jump back against the doorframe, widening my eyes, the reddish-brown hair close enough it tickles my nose. "Err, Ron? I think you're cool and all, but I'm not sure I like you enough for this."

"Shut up," he grumbles, patting the top of his head. "Does my hair smell of anything?"

"Why wou-"

"Dude, just smell," he interrupts me. Frowning, I carefully inhale through my nose and instantly my senses are smacked around the memory.

"You smell like _Nonno_."

"Huh?" Ron pulls away in panic, self-consciously pulling a tuft of fringe down as far as he can to sniff. He goes cross-eyed. "What the ballsack is no-no?!"

"No. _Nonno_," I correct him. Ron stares at me, raking his fringe back again, looking like he's not really sure what he's supposed to say to that. The cigarette bud behind his ear grabs my curiosity again but I ignore it and translate: "Grandpa. _Nonno _is Grandpa in Italian." I shake my head. "Ron, you smell like my grandpa…"

"I was looking through the pantry and pulled out some Graham crackers but Mom's stupid Oregano pot fell on me."

"That's it!" I suddenly burst out, pointing a finger and almost hopping on one foot. I don't when my snake bite reminds me not to. "Oregano. My grandpa used to smell of Oregano and old newspapers!" I laugh like a maniac, clapping my hands, but I settle quickly, realising I must look rather alarming. I'm not sure Ron's ever seen me so excited, by his expression, and so for a second we sort of just stare awkwardly at each other. "Oh – uh, sorry. Just, I almost forgot."

Ron shakes his head and calls me a freak but in a good way and then he stuffs his head in my face again and asks, "Is it noticeable? Like, the smell?"

"Not reprehensibly," I answer. Ron snickers.

"You're spending too much time with Nell," he says, though, looking relieved that the Oregano scent isn't reprehensible. He goes back into the kitchen.

"So, what are you doing?" I ask one last time, glancing down the hallway.

"Getting these..."

I look at him, eyes widening as he suddenly thrusts three beers into my arms.

"Dad's stash. But we can't take anymore, or he'll know."

"_We_!?" I bark, fumbling with the amount of alcohol in my arms. He just grins, gathering another three in his arms, too. "Oh, no, man! You are _not_ dragging me into this!"

"C'mon, dude!" Ron argues, sounding too much like Patrick. "It's fun. And everyone's waiting for me."

I don't know why it hadn't occurred to me until not that the others were in on his motives here. To be honest, it makes me feel pretty childish. Ron grins and uses this to his advantage.

"Now you're here I won't have to make two trips."

"Oh, that worked out just great," I say sarcastically, and his eyes roll. "Why do we need drinks anyway?"

Again, I feel stupidly childish when he smirks and doesn't even give me an answer, shrugging the same way Enid does. I frown more. _Is that just a couple thing? Subconsciously mimicking boyfriends or girlfriends? **Enid doesn't talk with her hands though.** Yeah, but she does run her fingers through her hair, sometimes. Do Carl and I ever do that? Copy each other without realising it? **As much as I don't want to admit it, probably.**_

"Look, as long as this is all we take, nobody'll notice," Ron assures me. "But we gotta be quick. My folks're coming home soon. I don't even know where Sam is, but he'll tell. Little freak tells Mom everything."

My gut flips, remembering the little boy telling me the same thing.

"I-I'm not sure I want to do this, man," I'm saying, trying to push the bottles towards him. "I'm not rea—"

"_De Luca_!"

Ron yells at me so loudly that I have to suppress instinct to sink my knife into his forehead, half expecting him to try to take a chunk out of my face before I remind myself he isn't dead.

"_Do this_!"

"Don't yell at me!" I shout back at him, recoiling. "Jesus _shit,_ man."

Ron finds my discomfort far to amusing. I decide I'm definitely not up for the whole teenager-thing today. I'd much rather go find a book and hide in it for a while. I don't want to be here, sneaking a respected man's beer stash from his own home, getting shouted at by his son for not wanting to. No. I don't need this. Fuck this!

"Shall we?" he asks charismatically.

"_No,_" I glare at him. "The fuck is your fucking problem?"

He shrugs.

"Well, _quit_ it," I frown at him, kind of finding it disturbing how persistent both he and his brother are.

"Hey, what's up with your hand?" he asks, changing subject. I look down to see that I'm not using my hand to hold the beers, but rather balancing them on my forearm to spare moving my wrist too much.

"Oh. Nothing."

"It looks like a balloon."

"There was a beaver damn, and a garter snake." Ron's eyebrow rises. "Nothing. Bee sting. Why do you have a cigarette?"

"You alright?"

"Yes," I answer curtly, wanting to get back on topic, furthermore, back to refusing it.

"So are you in or what?" Ron asks. He's moving too quickly from one subject to another. It's overwhelming.

"Jesus," I huff. "You're..."

Ron's eyebrows climb skyward, mischief crossing his expression.

"_What_?" I snap at him, not liking how self-conscious he seems to make me. In fact, not liking how self-conscious all of the Alexandrians seem to make me. Like Aiden and Nicholas today, and Deanna pretty much every time I talk to her, and those tutting and staring people at the welcome party, and Enid being Enid. And the worst part is they all seem to enjoy it. So I glare, suddenly becoming aware of how unfair all that is. "Why. Are. You. Staring at me."

"Carl. Is. Waiting."

**_Wow. Really?  
_**_Umm.  
**Oliver? Oh, come on, man.**_

I shouldn't let that change my mind. I'm stronger than that.

**_Mother-fucking-piss-balls._**

I feel myself wince, not even a moment passing before I completely cave.

"Fucking hell," I growl at myself. Ron snickers proudly. "Get what you need and let's get out of here."

We stuff the bottles inside our clothes, and Ron makes for the front door, an idiotic grin on his face that on several occasions now I've had the urge to not-so-gently slap off of him. But he suddenly freezes.

"Oh, no."

The words are visible, not audible.

"Erm." I tense up, "What is it—"

"My Dad."

My blood turns cold, freezing my whole anatomy. My eyes snap to the front door, spotting through the side windows the looming figure that is Pete Anderson. Then something shoves me, and I stagger to the other end of the hallway at a yank by my collar, and Ron shoves me out the back door, roughly, practically throwing his three beer bottles at me.

"Hide."

He's about to run, but the moment he turns to the door again he rushes back and stuffs his cigarette between my lips, and I stumble backwards with an offended grunt, speechless, terrified, but quickly collecting myself and leaping off the porch to hide under the banister beside the steps. The bottles clink and clash together, and my breath catches either side of the cigarette bud, wondering what the fuck I'm doing here, shushing the inanimate beer bottles as if they will listen, hiding and about to get totally busted.

"Dad..." Ron's voice is short and panicked, muffled when the back door shuts behind him. "H-hey. Hey."

Pete doesn't answer.

"I'm, uh, just heading out t—"

"Who else's here?" Pete asks quietly, yet no less intimidating, daring Ron's answer. I close my eyes, biting my lips together until I realise I'm squashing Ron's cigarette. I force a tremble away from my knees, adrenaline making the sting and throb in my ankle and wrist dull. It's Pete. I mean, it's not like he'll tare into my jugular like some walker. He's a person. A father. A doctor. Worst he'd do is point a reprimanding finger and dish up a ten-minute lecture, right?

"Nobody." Ron acts dumb.

"I heard talkin'."

"Oh," Ron fumbles, "no, just me."

"If that girl's here again…"

"No. Enid's with Nell—"

"If she ain't here, then who?"

"Nobo—"

"_Don'tlietome_!"

With a gasp, Ron startles, and a hear a _bang! _When an elbow hits a wall.

"Who?"

"O-Oliver," Ron answers. He sounds afraid. _Genuinely _afraid. "He was. A little while ago. But, h-he left. I said I'd go find him, so—"

Pete starts laughing.

There are a lot of types of laughter, I've come to realise. The first kind I can think of is the kind of laughing that makes you want to laugh along with someone, like Tara's brilliant _'Kch-kch-kch'_ laughing, or Tyreese's when he'd laugh at his own jokes in the library with Karen. The second kind is the kind of laughing that makes you feel small. The kind of laugh that makes you want to hug yourself as the wheezy fits of corrupt amusement scratch at your ears and crawl up your spine.

Pete has that kind of laugh.

"Dad..." Ron suddenly sounds fragile. Hurt. I've never heard him sound like that. "Why're you laughing at me?"

"You queer now?"

I think I blink a few times, expecting that about as much as I expect Abraham to wear a tutu.

"Dad..." Confusion rather than defense, which takes me back as well. "Oliver's my friend."

Pete doesn't stop laughing. It makes me wince, makes my gut shrivel, sends the hair on my neck standing to attention despite the warm day. Ron sighs, and I hear the back door open because he's chosen to walk away rather than argue his case, most likely for my benefit rather than his own.

"_Hey_."

"And her name's Enid."

"_Don't_ you walk away from me, boy!"

Then something happens.

It makes me startle, because there is a grunt and a loud slam; the noise of the screen door hitting wall, and in the same moment Ron yelps, his voice cut off when something obstructs his throat. The decking tremors behind me, and there is another grunt from Pete as something hits the side of the house – as Ron does.

"Who d'you think y'are?!" Pete shouts at him. "Lyin' to me like that."

I push myself from behind the banister and watch him pin his son to the wall. Ron is on tip toes, but not of his own accord, because his father's hand grips his jaw, pushing it up so hard that the skin over his neck and chin scrunch against their restraint. Ron grips his father's arm hard, gagging, his face turning distressing shades of purple. He pulls at the sleeve he's got a grip on but his father shakes him violently like a rag doll.

"I don't give two damn shits what you do with your friends, just don't come around here acting like you own the place! Show some fucking respect, boy!"

Ron looks as far away from him as he can, and then he sees me. My mouth is agape, not yet sure what I'm trying to say. _Let go!_ Maybe? Or, _What the fuck are you doing to your son?_ or,_ OhmyGodohmyGodohmyfuckingGod! _And it seems like I'm just going to take a random pick of the three and speak, but—

"Don't!" Ron yells at me. His eyes shift back to his father, who hasn't noticed me. "Wait, please!"

I scowl at him, but he puts his arm out at me, only for Pete to shove him again, furious.

"You talkin' back to me?" he asks in disbelief.

Ron grunts and shakes his head, whimpering his, "Please, don't," to the both of us, so I stumble back obediently, hiding, feeling weak and useless and confused, listening like a coward.

"You have your friends 'round here, don't lie to me about it!"

"_Agh_! Dad, you're breaking my—"

"D'you know how hard I work to keep us all living here?"

"Yes," Ron grunts, sounding like Pete is squeezing harder. My hands come up, pressing over my ears, but I still hear them. "S-sorry. Dad, I'm – _auhh_!"

"You have no respect! I'm getting' sick and tired of your shit!"

"I'm sorry," Ron chokes, apologising for nothing he's done wrong. "Sorry, Dad. Please – _nyugh_! It won't... It won't happen again, s-swear."

"You better start appreciatin' everything I'm doin' here, for you. For us all!"

"I'm sorry." He lets out another yelp. "Dad!"

"You got that?!"

Ron chokes his yes.

"You _GOT_ that?!"

"Yes! Yessir."

There is a loud clatter as Ron is released and falls to the floor, heaving in a deep breath. The door slams as Pete disappears inside. I'm panting, horrified, hearing Ron's wheezing as he collects himself, and I come out of hiding, speechless, covering my mouth.

"Ow..." He has to clear his throat twice, pinching his Adam's apple. "Shit, uh, close call, huh?"

All I can do is nod, mute, and Ron tries to smile but doesn't quite manage it.

"I..." he coughs, turning it into a painful chuckle. "Uh, I think I need your inhaler."

I only realise he's joking when I try to hand it to him and he shakes his head and forces a laugh. He steps up to me and takes the cigarette from my mouth, replacing it behind his ear with a cocky grin.

"Where are the beers?"

* * *

"Ron..."

"C'mon," he chirps.

"Ron."

He stops, facing away. We're at the pond a few blocks away from the brownstones.

"What?"

"Your dad…"

"It's no big."

"No big?" I frown. "Ron, your dad just choked you against your own fucking house."

"_Shh_!"

I swat his arm away when he tries to cover my mouth, not sure if I'm angry at him or angry at myself for not helping him. But I settle, realising he's had more than his fair share of shit from people today.

"Don't be so loud," Ron whispers. "He—people might hear."

An exchange takes place between us, acknowledging the other's conflict without needing to say it aloud.

"Just forget it, okay?"

I frown, nodding.

"C'mon."

* * *

**"She's Not There" the Zombies**

* * *

Inside the brownstone apartment, Ron locks the door after us and leaves the key on the windowsill. Bean hears us and comes to investigate, earning a scratch between his ears from me as we walk through the hallway. I smirk when I feel a little paint still stuck in his fur. One of the Mikey's dad's CDs is playing from upstairs. Loud enough to hear from the whole house but not enough to hear from outside. It's some dated 60's band with a lot of drums and electric guitar. It's pretty good really, with lyrics like:

_'Please don't bother trying to find her.  
She's not there._

_Well, let me tell you about the way she looked,  
the way she acts and the colour of her hair.  
Her voice was soft and cool.  
Her eyes were clear and bright.  
But she's not there.'_

I'm still being quiet, apparently too quiet for Ron. . .

"Oliver."

Bean notices us stop and waits at the top of the staircase, sitting and chewing at the paint in his paws. Penelope and I still need to finish clipping them.

"Look," he whispers, serious. "Don't say anything, about what happened. I don't want Enid or Nell to worry about it. If Mikey fins out again he'll… doesn't matter. Just don't say anything, keep it between you and me." He gets very close to me then, like he's desperate for me to say something, like he's trying not to grab me or get mad because I haven't. "Okay—okay, man?"

I don't answer.

"Alright?"

"He's done it before?"

"_Oliver,_" Ron growls. I step back, suddenly feeling small and ignorant. "I_ mean_ it. It's _cool_."

"That..." I point, "was _not _cool."

"_That_ was _none_ of your damn _business_," he retorts. "Stay out of it."

"Have you told you mom—"

"_Oliver_!"

I flinch when his fist balls up and raises by his shoulder, and almost immediately I grab for my knife, but I don't unsheathe it. Ron grits his teeth, and when his eyes snap down to my hand he steps back and looks afraid, all of a sudden. Bean stands up, watching us suspiciously.

"S-sorry," he says, falling over his composure. I imagine him like an apple that's hit the floor too many times, trying desperately to hide all of its bruises. "I-I didn't mean... I'm not... I'm not like him. Like that."

One of the worst noises in the world is when a person's voice cracks as they do everything they can not to cry, I think.

"Sorry, Oliver."

_It's okay,_ I should tell him. _It's not your fault. You shouldn't apologise for things that aren't your fault._ But I don't say anything, and Ron dips his head, nodding and blinking a few times as if I had, and I pretend I don't notice his chin tremble or the dampness in his eyes or the hiccup in his throat or the way his eyes say _I am bruised all over_.

"Whatever." He tries to laugh it off. "Your dad probably got mad at you sometimes, right?"

_Of course he did,_ I should say. _But never like that..._

"R-right?"

I swallow nervously and don't say anything because I can't lie to him. Ron nods anyway, smiling weakly, looking like Sam.

"Let's go up, man."

The house is a little different to the ones on our street. These apartments are smaller and have a less suburban look on the outside, as they're all conjoined and have three floors, they're styled modernly and neatly, and are clean inside. Three bedrooms. Everyone is currently set up in a kid's room, because, according to Ron, this is apparently the easiest room to sneak out of if anyone decides to show. That's what happened before with all the thumping Carl and I heard in 102 while we were in the kitchen, mumbling and chuckling and kissing; Ron and Mikey were both scrambling out of the window.

We find Mikey sat on the floor. Like Bean, he still has paint stuck under his nails. Carl is sat beside him, playing him at cards. Penelope and Enid are sprawled across the bed together having some kind of secret conversation like usual. Penelope has a book on her chest: Peter Pan. Still, after ten years, it is still her favourite book of all time.

It seems that there is an automatic unspoken hierarchy between the guys and girls, because despite there still being room on the bed, I take a seat on the floor with Mikey and Carl, and even Bean chooses to sit behind me, his spine warm and soft. Ron, on the other hand, neglects both the bed and the floor altogether, and instead goes and takes a seat on the window-ledge and pulls it open, ordering Mikey to turn down the music while he smokes.

Mikey hesitates when Penelope tells him not to do it.

"Oh, come on, Nell, quit being so _bossy._"

"You won't think I'm bossy when you die of cancer."

"Err, she's right," Mikey says a little nervously.

"Come on, Mikey, don't let her push you around just because you're in _love_ with her."

"Shut up, asshole!" Mikey gasps.

"Mikey, don't turn down the music," Penelope instructs.

"Turn down the music, man," Ron counteracts, "quick, or the whole community will find this place."

"Don't, Mikey."

"Bossy, bossy, bossy!"

"Shut up!"

Mikey puts his hand up like he's in class. "Uhh, you're both being pretty bossy, to be honest."

While this argument commences, Enid stays silent and ignores every word, and Carl has already begun to fuss over my injuries, his eyes widening at the swollen skin.

"I'm fine, man," I say.

"Carl, I can see your cards," Mikey says, because Carl had dropped them.

"DUDE, TURN DOWN THE FUCKING MUSIC! I NEED TO SMOKE!"

Nell says, "You've smoked -like- four cigarettes in your whole life, Ron."

"I AM A STRESSED TEENAGE BOY!"

"_YOU _ARE AN _UNAMBIGOUSLY_ HUGE MORON!"

"_UNAMBIGOUSLY_ BITE MY LEFT _NUT_!"

"Guys, _please _stop yelling at each other!" Mikey begs frantically, even though they're both laughing.

Carl, like Enid, ignores them all completely.

"What happened?" he asks me.

"Walker bite?" Enid pipes up.

Carl's breath hitches and I laugh inappropriately (more because she'd said something rather than that actual scenario being funny).

"_No,_" I say quickly. "There was a river, and a damn, and a stupid beaver and a stupid snake and a stupid bee. The beaver jumped out on me and—"

"TURN DOWN THE FUCKING MUSIC!"

"DON'T, MIKEY!"

"OhmyGodyou'regivingmeapanicattack."

"—and I got bitten on the ankle by the snake. But it was just a garter. Tara shooed the beaver away. Then, later, I got stung."

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah."

"What happened to the bumble bee?" Penelope suddenly enters our conversation. She's lost her argument, it seems, because the music is low and Ron is smoking his cigarette out the window about as consistently as he can breathe. He offers some to Mikey after he seems to calm down, and Mikey looks so stressed out about the music volume that he practically pounces on the offer, leaning out of the window beside him and passing the cigarette between. Mikey coughs badly, and Ron pats him on the back and holds the cigarette in his mouth for him to keep going.

The smell makes me think of the Claimers but I push that away and think of an answer to Penelope.

"I-I don't know. The thing stung me."

"Poor thing would've died," she says. "What did it ever do to you?"

I stare at her. . .

"It _stung_ me."

"Because you scared the shit out of it," she snaps back. "And that beaver. You trampled something it'd spent a long time building. And that snake. You probably pissed it off."

I'm not really sure if she's messing with me or not.

"What's up with you?" I ask.

Penelope snaps her eyes to Ron, lifting her eyebrows. "Nothing."

Obviously not buying it, I butt-scuffle across the room to sit directly beside her on the floor, gazing up at her on the bed. She frowns down at me, mostly just because of my odd behaviour, but I make her laugh when I paw at her kneecap.

"What's up, Penelope?"

"Buttons died," Enid answers me. Penelope glances at her, then to me, pressing her lips into a glum smile.

"What?" Mikey suddenly blurts, swinging around fast enough that he smacks his head on the window frame. Ron laughs, reaching out and rubbing his friend's face in mock comfort, but he, too, looks pretty taken aback by Enid's statement.

"What is buttons, exactly?" I ask.

"Buttons," Enid answers like it's obvious.

"The horse," Penelope elaborates. "Aaron and Daryl tried to catch him but the rotters got there first."

"That _sucks_," Mikey complains. "I was rooting for him."

I keep looking at her, because something is telling me that that isn't really what she's upset about. But then again, maybe it was, or, maybe she wasn't upset at all, or maybe she's just mad that Ron might get cancer. Hell, maybe she's just on her period or something. **_Uh. Either way, I'm not sure you should ask. Pretty sure the only answer you'd get is a smack._**

"Buttons has kinda been our mascot since Fall," Ron pipes up, too, squashing out the bud of his cigarette on the window ledge and spitting on the end. He hides it in a small crack under the window frame outside. "Aaron has been trying to catch him ever since. But... he just kept running."

"Why Buttons?" I ask.

Ron shrugs, "Just looked like a Buttons."

With that, I turn back to Penelope. "Sucks about your horse."

"He wasn't my horse," she says softly. "He wasn't anybody's horse."

A pause.

"Sucks about your wrist. And your ankle." She grins. "What a stupid beaver."

"What an angry snake," I say.

"What a poor bee."

Both of us laugh.

When I tell the others to smell Ron's hair he explains what happened and lets everyone take their individual sniffs of him. "Apparently I smell like Oliver's grandpa," he says, and Penelope agrees immediately. My grandfather had left quite an impression on her. He would call her _Bella Bambina, _which means beautiful girl, and one time when she was eleven she made him a painting.

Nell ends up taking quite a few sniffs, actually.

"That's so..." I expect her to come up with some spectacular word that could possibly articulate how the smell makes us feel, but in the end, it's pretty anti-climactic. . . "_weird._"

Ron comes back. He'd been handing out beers during all the smelling, and hands me one, too. I shake my head.

"Just have one, dude," he tells me. "I put my neck out so that we all could."

Even though he didn't mean it to, I still feel guilty. Ron seems to notice, and for a second looks like he'll back off, but again he uses it to his advantage and gestures me to take it, and, I know I said I wouldn't ever drink again, but I guess even in the apocalypse peer pressure is inevitable. It's only the one beer this time though, thankfully. So, again, I cave. Carl, too, when he lets my impressionability influence him, but I rationalise it because this time there is no chance of having to threaten little kids or yack or wake up naked.

Well, no, I suppose I could still wake up naked at some point, but I'll think about that later.

* * *

Somehow, a game of truth of dare forms. Enid resists, commenting how ridiculously cliché it is, but even she isn't immune to peer pressure. The questions and dares remain pretty mild for the majority of it, the riskiest dare is when Ron gets Mikey to hang out of the window for a few seconds. He does it, and it is pretty funny. But the rest have mostly been things like, "How many rotters have you put down?" and, "Try to pick up Bean." Carl gets that dare, and it's safe to say that he would lose a finger if he even tried to, so his forfeit is to swap shirts with someone in the room. He chooses me, and the exchange isn't exactly out of the ordinary; we share clothes anyway, though, it is a little weird being briefly top-naked in front of three other people.

"What happened on the worst day of your life?" Ron asks me.

"I'm not sure..." I lie. The truth is I have too many to choose from. Though, the day a little girl died in my arms probably takes first place.

"Carl. Truth or dare?" Carl takes a moment longer to answer, watching me, waiting for me to come out of my thoughts. I do, smiling nonchalantly at him despite knowing that he sees right through me.

"Truth," he answers, leaving the subject alone.

"What's the most embarrassing thing that's happened to you, this week?"

Before I even look at Carl, I know exactly what his answer is.

"I know," Penelope mumbles, chuckling. "Noah told me."

"Of course," Carl groans, cheeks boiling.

"I'm gonna kill him," I say.

"What happened?" Ron asks, and Carl looks like he's resisting the urge to hide behind me but I'm laughing too hard to be of any help. It is in this very moment, laughing and covering my face with my hands as the others grin and laugh along with me, that I suddenly become aware that, despite my embarrassment, I'm happier than I have been in a long time. Like a kid in those cheesy coming-of-age movies. For a moment I am not the fifteen-year-old boy who's the last of his related-family. I'm not the boy who let his own brother die alone and afraid in a prison shower-room, bleeding out like a shaken soda can, or the boy who locked his own parents in their bedroom, who's had to watch the people he cares about slowly get picked off one by one from war with the dead and the living alike, who murdered two men and entire families, who survived sexual and physical abuse, and who got shot, and watched a man get decapitated, or a girl murder her little sister. . . I am not the boy who thinks and dreams about it all in every moment of his life. Because for this _single_ moment. . .

I am just me.

Oliver.

The boy who can't stop laughing.

"Can I have a forfeit?" Carl asks.

"Yeah," Mikey says, talking amongst me and the others to choose one.

"Hey," Carl whispers. To me, I realise. "You okay?"

"Yeah," I reply, smiling. I have to wipe my eyes a little, but—"I'm okay."

It isn't a lie. But, at the same time, it is. I mean, I'm not okay, but there is nothing anyone can do about it, and so, I am okay, because I'm in a room filled with my friends, listening to music I like, sat next to my best friend, alive and here.

"I'm just, glad we're here."

"Me, too."

He smiles and I smile back, because we are going to keep on smiling like nothing is wrong and talk like everything is fine and tell ourselves that we have nothing to be sad about because we are not dead, and it is hard, we know, because we will also have to pretend like this very task doesn't hurt inside, just like everyone else is doing, and as Carl watches me, I keep up my façade and he keeps up his, too, even though his eyes tell me, _I know you, Oliver, _and I think back, _I know you do, and I love you for it,_ and his eyes say, _I love you, too, and it's okay not to be okay sometimes,_ and then suddenly we are kissing.

It's a few seconds later that we realise someone is talking to us.

"Guys."

Carl and I look at Ron who is sat cross legged right beside us. The others watch and giggle or roll their eyes from their places in the bedroom.

"_What_?" Carl says, a little rudely, as if they have no right to interrupt us. My cheeks are burning.

"If you'd be so kind as to not screw each other right in front of us, _thank you,_" Ron says arrogantly, and both Carl and I glare at him in defense —though, not before untangling ourselves from each other a little. Ron ignores this, and goes ahead and shuffles himself right between us, taking a snug seat that both Carl and I wiggle a few centimeters' distance away from. "Carl, we have your forfeit," Ron says casually. "Tell us, please, have you ever done something that would get you thrown in jail since the Turn?"

"Yes."

They all watch him, like they're expecting an elaboration, but when none is offered, everyone sort of awkwardly takes the hint and moves on to Ron's turn. He picks dare, an Enid challenges him to wear a blindfold and guess who's in front of him. She uses her own scarf as a blindfold, tying it around his head for him. Mikey sits in front of him. Carl and I have found seats on the floor beside each other again.

"Okay, guess," Enid says with her face in front of Ron's as not to rule herself out, and then sits back on the bed with Penelope, their legs crossing at the shins. Impressively silent, I notice, remembering the same nimbleness from when Carl and I followed her through the woods that day. Ron reaches towards where her voice was, his thumb poking Mikey in the eyeball. He jerks backwards, silencing himself.

"Sorry..." Ron remains serious, reaching further, carefully tracing the nose, and he frowns under the polka-dotted scarf, touching Mikey's hair and tugging on it to test its length. "Nell?"

"Nope," Penelope says, and I glance up to see her playing with Enid's hands. Enid takes no notice. Ron, acknowledging that he is either touching Mikey or Carl or me, becomes a little less delicate in the way he feels and, rather roughly, rubs Mikey's cheek with his fingertips. Mikey flinches and glares and his mouth makes weird noises while it is pulled about, but keeps quiet.

"Carl?"

"No," Carl says beside me, so Ron cups Mikey's chin, surprisingly gently this time. He grins.

"Well, you're definitely not Oliver."

"Ass," I grumble, cupping my own jaw to feel if my under-bite really is that prominent. It is, I realise. _Shit. _Ron is chuckling. Mikey, too. When Carl laughs, he turns to me, pushing my hands aside to cup my jaw for me, smiling at it in that fond way he always does which makes me feel a little less self-conscious about it. I think he'll kiss me, and I let out a nervous, "_Errm_," noise to awkwardly and discreetly remind him that I'm not the only person here.

Penelope clears her throat, and he suddenly comes to, letting go of me, cringing, but grinning because he simply can't help it.

"Mikey," Ron is saying, pulling off his blindfold. "Hey, man."

"Hey," Mikey replies.

"Penelope's turn."

"Truth."

Basically, this is how the next conversation goes: Mikey's hand comes up, and he says, "I have one," and she says, "What?" and he says, "Your first kiss. Who was it with, and what was it like?" and Penelope's eyes roll and she groans, "Haven't I told you?" and Mikey says, "Nope," and Penelope glances at me, her cheeks heating up and I can feel my own mirroring. Then she asks, "Haven't you got a better question?" and Mikey just shrugs and Penelope rolls her eyes again, and Mikey says, "C'mon. It's the best stereotypical question there is and no one's even asked it yet," and then there is a pause, one in which Carl snorts so loudly I worry he'll need a tissue, and I glare at him, shoving his chest, and then Penelope rests her chin in her hands, casually tipping her whole upper body to push the top of her head into my chest, before sitting up again, leaving that strange gesture as her answer.

I don't mean to grin like an idiot, watching both Mikey's and Ron's mouths fall open.

"You two _kissed_?"

"Hm." Penelope nods, still looking pretty bored. "What was it like, Ollie?"

"I think that's your question," I answer awkwardly.

"You did okay," she says.

I laugh, rubbing the back of my neck awkwardly.

"Wait, so, you two were..." Mikey begins, looking awkward and confused and frowning like he's smelt something bad, and I shake my head, pressing my lips together and very carefully not acknowledging Carl grinning at me out of the corner of my eye.

"It was one kiss."

I glance at Enid. She'd taken the words from my mouth, and she looks at me, shrugging. Mikey continues pressing. . .

"So, after everything you've ever said about Oliver, you missed kissing out?"

"It wasn't like it was a regular occurrence," Penelope explains. "I'm not really very into kissing."

"It was one kiss," I say.

"_Yeah,_" Mikey insists, sounding a little mad. "But she didn't fail to tell us about the time you Naired your own leg hair!"

"Wh... Oh my God. Once!" I argue. "And she paid me to!"

"We know," Ron says. "Six bucks and thirty-four cents."

"Twenty-four," Mikey corrects.

"Wait," I complain, "Penelope, how much did you tell them about me?"

"I can't remember..." she admits, "a lot?"

"I'm starting to take this personally."

"Good," she grins.

I smirk at her, choosing to take that as a compliment.

"Mikey's turn."

"Truth," he replies, still a little hung up on the subject.

"Who is or was your hero?"

"Deadpool. Obviously."

Enid's dare, from Ron, is to put her hands in his sweat pants' pockets.

"For an entire round?"

"For _an entire round,_" Ron confirms.

"This is just an excuse to get groped, isn't it?" she predicts. "Don't think I won't."

"Your choice," he smirks. "But, yeah, that was kinda the intention."

So she does. The pocket thing, I mean. Not the groping.

"Your turn," she says from behind Ron, resting her chin on his shoulder, hands in his pockets. It's takes her glance at me for me to realise she's spoken to me, and out of awkwardness I suddenly look away from her. That weird social rule not to look at other couples when they're being affectionate towards each other only just being consciously noted by me, and accidentally breaking it now proves to be enough to heat my cheeks. It's just, it's the most intimate thing I've ever seen them do together. "Truth or dare, Oliver?"

"Truth, please."

I seem to have a nasty habit of underestimating Enid's vocal filter. Like Carol when she's tired, or me when I'm drunk, filtering isn't at its strongest. Though, with Enid, it's a permanent predicament. So, being Enid, she asks. . .

"Have you and Carl ever had sex?"

I sort of stare at her. Carl goes completely red.

"So, that's yes," Enid says, like it doesn't even matter to her, like what she's asking is just irrelevant and unimportant. "Or, no, you call it making love." It's only me that notices that the last part wasn't a question, and the colour drains from my face, and Enid's eyebrows lift, as if to say, _Glad that penny finally dropped._ Because I finally realise. . .

The day Carl and I followed her.

She followed us, too?

"No way," I say.

"Yeah, Enid, that's a little personal," Mikey says, mistakenly thinking I'd said that to the question rather than to the realisation.

"What, Ron and I have," Enid shrugs, not even hesitating, watching my turmoil. "There."

And there's me thinking Carl was the bluntest teenager in the world.

Ron stutters. Mikey, too. Both of them wanting to talk about this about as much as walkers want to sit down and talk about politics. Penelope just sort of sits back and grins, letting this all play out. I get this funny feeling like she knew this would happen.

"I think I'll pick a forfeit," I say, trying not to panic.

"Fine, spoil sport." Despite Enid's obvious terrorisation from a moment ago, she doesn't press. I thought girls were weird, period. But Enid? She has her own category of Intentionally Inflicted Mental Mutilation. "Nell, got one for him?"

Penelope narrows her eyes, thinking.

"You're insane," Ron teases his girlfriend, gently tipping backwards into her front to kiss the underside of her cheek. "But awesome-insane."

"Wait," Penelope says, "he doesn't need to forfeit."

"Hey, no," I blurt in spite of myself, trying to hold on to any slither of dignity Carl and I may still have. "I didn't answer."

"Ollie," Penelope says empathetically. "You didn't need to."

I feel myself blush again, going quiet. Carl, too, and he avoids looking right at me when I look to my side at him. It's Mikey who speaks up first.

"So, are Nell and I the only virgins here?"

Now it's Penelope's turn to blush. Well, not blush essentially. Instead, the colour drains from her face.

"I think we should just talk about something else," I say, desperate to change subject. Because Carl's gone ever so slightly catatonic and Mikey is so confused that his face is contorting more and more with every second and Ron is laughing and Enid is staring over Ron's shoulder at Penelope who looks like she's about to yack or pass out or both.

"Yeah. It's Carl's turn," she gets out, glancing at him slightly frantically. "Truth or dare?"

"Uh," he stammers, "truth. But, no more... sex topics, please?" It's a rare occasion that I get to talk to him about that kind of stuff, let alone anyone else.

"Yeah, man." Ron snickers. "Fine with me. Alright, what's one thing you'd forget, in your whole life?"

**_That entire conversation for a start._**

Carl thinks for a moment, because there's an awful lot up there that he can choose from.

"Nothing," he says. "I think I'd rather just remember it all... I need it, you know?"

The others stare at him. Carl stares back, unfamiliar with the social blunder he might've just made for answering so seriously. He takes a drink, because it's been a while since he has. I take a gulp, too, grimacing at the bitterness. Ron and Penelope have their turns. Ron picks truth, naming something he misses from before; the arcade, and Penelope picks truth, too, and is asked to share her weirdest dream.

"I don't know," she answers. "I never remember them. Probably something about swimming in a pool of Bean's drool or something."

"Ew."

"Don't even ask, man."

"Mikey's turn."

"Dare."

"Dare you to..." I take another drink, not really sure if I like beer or not yet. It seems to get less awful with every sip, but maybe that's just because it's killing my taste buds. "Do a handstand against the wall, for a minute. If you fall before then, you gotta..."

"Do seven minutes in Heaven." Enid says, and then her hands shift in her boyfriend's pockets, suddenly and intentionally. Immediately, Ron folds forward and a high-pitched grunt escapes him that he stifles by slapping his hand over his mouth. Mikey startles and leaps away like they'd just soiled the carpet. Penelope blinks a few times, then giggles. Carl and I stare at them, worrying for Ron's reproductive organs because, from his reaction, whatever just happened was either very painful or... well, _not_ painful, and definitely not appropriate. All the while Enid ignores him, and us, as if nothing had happened, and when he composes himself and sits up again, taking deep breaths and swallowing a few times with red cheeks and dilated pupils, she whispers something into his ear that I only just hear as, _"Be careful what you wish for, Ron."_ before continuing her sentence to Mikey: "With one of us."

Mikey frowns. "Who?"

"Your choice," she says. Ron is still panting, sort of laughing at the same time, but an exhausted kind of laughter. _Should someone ask if he's okay? **Well, he did say he was counting on getting groped. **I'm not sure that's what he had in mind. **To be honest, he doesn't look like he's complaining though.**_

"What's Seven minutes in Heaven?" Carl asks.

"A game," Penelope. Always the urban dictionary. "Two people go into a closet or wherever that's private."

"Seven?"

"Minutes."

"Doing what?"

"Fooling around," Enid says bluntly, and Ron blinks a few times, still looking flustered.

"Wh-what?" Carl murmurs.

"Don't worry," she adds casually, "you don't have to."

Carl does well not to look completely shocked. I sort of pretend that nothing I'm hearing is at all new to me, doing surprisingly well.

"Why seven?" Carl asks. Enid shrugs Enidly.

"It's how to be the most cliché teenage clique in the universe," Penelope says.

"Sounds like a book title," I say.

"That's not a bad idea."

"I think it's cool," Enid insists, apparently having changed her mind about the whole teenage thing since we'd started this game. "We've earned it. This is the only time in our lives that we can, and seeing as we're not about to get eaten, or worse, I think it's cool that we can be kids, for once."

I blink.

"I've got this anyway," Mikey boasts, and rather gracelessly goes and poises himself to the left of the door, arms up, before throwing himself upside-down. His feet hit the wall with two steady _thonk_s. For a moment he holds himself there, looking collected, balanced, if not ever-so-slightly red faced as blood rushes North and the front of his shirt flips up. I smirk at Carl when I realise he's looking at his exposure, leaning over to whisper,_ "Staring,"_ into his ear, and he suddenly blushes and thumps my knee and tells me he didn't realise it. I laugh at him.

Then Mikey collapses, crumpling to the carpet in a heap.

"Ouch."

We all chuckle or shake our heads at him, and he stands, pulling down his shirt again and Carl glares at me when I discreetly pout at him in mockery. A more defensive reaction would probably be expected from me –his boyfriend– but I know Carl enough to understand that just because he might look doesn't mean he'll ever act. Still doesn't stop me from teasing him for it though.

"Alright," Enid says, "Mikey, who d'you pick?"

I don't really pay much attention. I'm still telepathically ridiculing Carl, much to his annoyance. But then someone tosses a pillow at my face, and I look up with a grunt, realising that Mikey had chosen me.

"Me?!" I bark as I retrieve the pillow, tossing it at Penelope when I realise she'd thrown it. "Why me?"

"Out of us all, you're the quiet one."

"_Quiet one_?"

"Yeah. Plus, you gave me the dare."

"No," I frown, "Enid did."

"Enid scares me," he says, looking like he means it, trying not to look at her. Ron snickers in front of her.

"Penelope?" I point. "Or, Bean?" The I grin. "Or Carl, I'm sure you'd have a better time with him." Carl smacks me on the thigh. "_Ack_! Kidding."

"Oliver," Mikey insists, "you're my best bet of coming out without maimed testicles." That fantastic Mikey logic. "Seriously."

"What the hell do you think I'd do to them?!" Carl orders.

"No, I didn't mean..." Mikey winces awkwardly. "Oliver, dude. I'm starting to take this personally. C'mon, you make me seem like the token black guy in books and TV shows that always dies in the end, like the red shirts in Star Trek."

"Apart from the fact that, for one, you're paler than Carl, and two, you're wearing a blue polo-neck," I say, cocking an eyebrow.

Mikey waves his hands to shush me. "Details details," he says.

"Go on, quiet one," Penelope tells me. "I've heard that the token not-actually-black-at-all-and-is-also-wearing-a-blue-shirt-not-red guy, is actually pretty awesome."

"Thanks, Nell," Mikey says.

"Alright," I chuckle and stand up. I gather my half drank beer bottle and pinch Mikey's polo sleeve to pull him to follow me next door. "C'mon, awesome-Mikey."

"This room?"

"Guess."

"Here."

"Thanks, man."

"Have fun..."

I trip as I climb into the closet, managing to put my middle finger up at whoever said that before the door closes behind us, hearing them leave, laughing and teasing us like idiots as they go back into the other bedroom.

"Wait!" I shout. "How will you guys know time's up?"

"Lizzie's watch," Carl answers, a lot more amused than I'm particularly comfortable with. "It's here in your jumper."

I thumb at the door, looking around. It's pretty dark inside. I can only see Mikey in front of me from the thin lines of light cutting through the shuttered doors, shaping his face like looking through camera film of something, and I smile, trying not to just burst out laughing.

"So," he says, shrugging I think, the hung up shirts shifting behind his shoulders, hangers scraping, "this is... awkward."

"Yep."

I step back and take a cramped seat, my back against the wall, pushing some shoes out from under me and watching Mikey take a seat opposite, too, now with a more socially acceptable foot or so between our crossed legs. A pause ensues. A long one. One minute? Two? In this time I just about finish my beer bottle. Mikey, too, by the looks of it.

"Who's Lizzie?"

I was staring at the door, watching the bedroom through the horizontal lines in the closet, thinking about that rug in front of the bed that is turned up at the corner and glaring at it because I realise it's what I'd tripped on. But now, my head snaps around to him.

"I've always wondered why you carry around a girl's watch," he goes on, and I realise he's piecing together what Carl said.

"Could be a fashion statement."

"C'mon, you're not_ that_ gay."

I scoff, wondering if anyone is ever actually going to bother asking if I even am gay. It doesn't particularly matter, I guess, but it'd be nice if people here stopped just seeing something, putting a label on it, and leaving it there without confirmation from its original source.

"Pretty discreet statement," he adds, realising I was avoiding the topic. "I mean, you don't even wear it. Was she your sister or something? Nell only mentioned Patrick."

I inhale uncomfortably, wondering if I should lie, but choosing against it because I realise that lying isn't how I'm supposed to be trying to start a new life here. I could let him assume, like Carol said, like he seems to always do anyway, but I'm not sure it'd work seeing as he's actually asking now.

"Might as well've been," I say. "But, no, just a little girl I knew. A really, great, little girl."

Mikey squints, or at least I think he does, but all I can really see is his black hair and eyebrows against his pale skin, like some life-sized character from a comic book.

"The other day," he says finally, "Sam said something to me." I swear, every organ I own barrels to my throat. "That you accidentally called him a girl's name."

When I swallow, every organ is suddenly yanked down again; nauseas or relieved, I can't tell.

"Was it Lizzie? The name?"

"No," I answer truthfully. "Her little sister Mika. Sam kinda reminds me of her. She was about his age. Had the same..._stickiness_."

"What happened to them?"

"They died."

"Oh. I—I don't know why I asked that."

I shrug, pretending that it all doesn't still tare me apart inside.

"It's whatever."

Another pause. Mikey breaks it.

"Why d'you do that?"

"What?" I ask.

"See? You don't even notice."

It's only then that I glance down at my hand –my un-stung one. It's tapping, against the floorboard. I stop, embarrassed, drawing my hand up to my chest and rubbing it as if to reprimand it. Mikey snickers.

"Shut up," I grumble, dropping my arm, wincing when it knocks against my raw wrist.

"It's cool, Oliver," Mikey reassures, oddly serious again. I can't help but feel defensive regardless. "My mom," he says as if he's asking. "She, uh... she had Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, too."

There with the assuming again.

"I don't have that," I am quick to tell him. When I was a kid, Mom got me tested once after I'd gotten a little too hysterical about keeping my bedroom clean, but the results were inconclusive. I only got so upset because Patrick messed with my comics.

"My mom," Mikey goes on, "she'd tap. If she messed up she'd have to start over. And, she couldn't bear to see the number six or thirteen, if she did she'd count back from thirty. Crazy, huh?" He smiles excitedly, and I get the feeling that he doesn't talk about her much. When Mikey frowns at his lap he looks like Nicholas. "Sorry, um, you don't care."

"No, no," I say, suddenly becoming aware of how self-conscious Mikey is. I'd always thought he was kidding. Goofing around to make us laugh. I guess he's not the only one who's been assuming around here, either. "Go on. I wanna hear, swear."

He smiles gratefully.

"Well, she cleaned, everything. And everything had to be neat and in order, and if she had to do something, like, switch off the light or cooker or tap, or shut a door, she had to do it a certain number of times. She was totally mad, but, totally awesome, you know?"

I nod yes, not really knowing but realising that it doesn't matter. Mikey's smile falls, almost disappears, and what remains is forced.

"Actually, it kind of made her miserable. Dad, too. She'd get so mad at herself, and then he'd get mad, and they'd fight and it only made her worse." He sighs. "She didn't last for very long, after everything went bad."

I stare at him, and Mikey looks away miserably.

"I'm sorry about your mom, Mikey."

I remember when my brother died, how all people said was that they were sorry for my loss. I'd never been able to understand why; blaming it on a social flaw that was designed to make awkward situations a little more bearable for the unaffected. But I get it now. You say sorry not merely to avoid awkwardness, because right now, hearing about Mikey's mom, all I _am_ is sorry. Sorry that, like me and so many others, he can't say he has a mother anymore. Sorry that I've caused him to talk about it. Sorry that her demise is something that ever even happened.

"Thanks, man," he mumbles. "I'm sorry about Lizzie and Mika."

I have to look away, glad Mikey can't see me because I have to wipe my face with my sleeve.

"I just wanted you to know that it's not weird. Stuff like that – the tapping," he explains. "Well, I mean, it is. But, you know, you shouldn't feel bad about it... or weird."

Until now, I've never given him enough credit for how nice he is, how reassuring. You could be growing a tail and whiskers and Mikey would still make you feel just like everyone else. Even now, recognising this trait in him, I guess I'm not about to tell him, so I smirk, letting the topic filter out through the shutters in the closet door.

"How're you finding the runs?"

"They're okay."

"Dad mentioned you this morning," he says. "Said he didn't think you'd be so confident out there for a... um, a kid."

I watch him, because I'm pretty sure Nicholas didn't call me a kid, and by the way Mikey winces, I realise I'm right. It would have been _Faggot, _or _Queer, _or _Homo; _all I've already heard Nicholas and Aiden call me when they don't think I can hear them. I try not to think about it, but it's hard, sometimes, especially at the moment after hearing Pete earlier, too.

Mikey clears his throat uncomfortably.

"It's whatever," I say, ignoring that annoying hurt thing that always nags at my chest when something like this happens. "Guess I'm used to it."

"I told him to shut up," Mikey tells me, and we both know he's not talking about the _kid _part.

"That's cool."

"He said I was soft for it... said I was..." He sighs. "Doesn't matter."

"You guys okay?"

"We got into an argument, like usual, but, he can be a dick sometimes so he can go screw himself."

I force a laugh, riddled with guilt, and something else, too, that is worse than that. Like I'm tainted, dirty, like mud on a clean window frame. Like I'm some contagious disease that makes dads' mean to their sons just for being friends with me. I shrug it off, but I stop because I'm not Enid._ Maybe just being around others is enough. Maybe we really are starting to turn into each other. **Like some giant ant colony?** Kind of, I guess. Maybe find a better name though._

"He's called me worse," Mikey says.

"Me, too," I say.

"Nell said one time she found you stuffed in your own locker. Someone wrote stuff on your arm, stole stuff, her notebook or something?"

"Yeah," I say, the memory playing over in my head.

"You were holding on to it for her. You thought she'd hate you for losing it."

I blink at him.

"It's kind of weird how much I know about you." Another blink. Mikey smirks. "I know that..." he starts listing off on his fingers, "you like to wear socks to sleep. I know... that you're addicted to chocolate. I know, that... you read The Chronicles of Narnia in chronological order instead of order of release because jumping back and forward in time freaked you out. I know you play guitar, and the uke, and that you can sing. I know you like the smell of cherry but hate the taste, and that you have the weakest stomach ever –which I totally thought Nell was over-exaggerating about until I met you. Oh, and I know you have this weird thing where you make a face before you laugh."

"Oh my God... What?"

"See?" Mikey chuckles, pointing, "you're doing it now."

Then I laugh, burying my face in my hands.

"I can't decide if that's impressive or creepy."

"Me neither," Mikey says, laughing too. "I guess, when Nell talks it's just sorta hard not to listen, you know?"

"She has that affect, huh?"

He grins. But it fades.

"When she just got here she hardly spoke. Only ever did when she needed to, or if she was answering something for Enid."

"Took Enid three weeks, right?"

"Yeah, Nell and Enid never went anywhere without each other. At first, Ron and I thought... well... I mean, they were so close. It seemed more like they were… into each other."

I laugh, not admitting that Carl and me thought the same thing briefly.

"Anyway, when Nell wasn't being Enid's subtitles, people could get a little out of her, yes-no answers and stuff. Took her a while to start up conversations on her own though, and it was just small things at first. But it was still a while until she was talkin' as much as she does now." He smirks then. Me too. "But, it was always you."

I suddenly feel like a deer caught in the middle of a walker herd.

"Me?"

"Yeah," Mikey says. "It was always talking about you that got her to really talk. Few days after she got here, Nell, Ron and I were helpin' Jessie make food. I'm not a very good cook, so, I cut my finger." He shows me the small scar on his pinky. "Nell said I reminded her of you. _'You're like my best friend Ollie from home,'_ that was the first thing she said to me."

Nostalgic, all of a sudden, I dip my head and stare at the scar on my palm from Independence Day two years ago.

"I'm a better cook now, just so you know."

I chuckle.

"Nell's neat like that, though, huh?"

"Like what?"

"I mean, like, making you feel good. Being nice to people, when she tries. Sometimes she can be so nice that you feel special if she just smiles at you. Sometimes, it feels like she's got so much nice that it's like it doesn't even matter at all." I frown then, unsure if he means that in a good way or not. "I mean," he explains, "she'll talk to me, and, I'll laugh and joke and smile, and it's nice, you know? But, then she'll talk to you, or Noah, or Carl or Ron or Enid or, anyone... and you'll laugh and joke and smile, too."

He's jealous?

"Nice, you know? Enough nice for everyone. So much nice that it doesn't seem to matter, sometimes."

"It matters," I tell him. "It does. I don't think she's being nice because it comes naturally. I mean, sometimes she's just cranky, so, I think making an effort to be nice makes her feel better, too, sometimes. Sometimes, it's easier to focus on other people rather than yourself." My mind not only thinks of Penelope, but Carol. "Distracts her from feeling sad, maybe."

"Nell's never sad."

"Yeah, well," I say. "Hey, that bully who wrote on me?"

Mikey nods.

"His name was Mikey, too."

"Wow. That's unfortunate."

"I only just noticed," I say, shrugging. "Douche was only so horrible to me because he had a crush on me."

"Really?"

I nod grudgingly.

"How'd you know?"

"He tried to kiss me... _did._ But, I pushed him away and ran for it."

"Nell never told us that part."

"She didn't see, and, I didn't tell her. During Summer I was so afraid of bumping into him I just didn't know how to tell her, and well, everything went to shit after that. Parents turned. Virginia was evacuated. Pat and I were left behind... I guess you're the first person I've ever told."

"Not Carl?"

"Don't think so. Never came up."

"Well, your secret's safe with me."

"It's not a secret," I say. "We were just kids. And he was stupid and dumb and confused and liked to take it out on me."

"Well, I still won't say anything."

I roll my eyes.

"And I won't try to kiss you either."

"Appreciate it."

He laughs, awkwardly looking out at the door, both of us more than happy for it to be opened right about now. But I'm not sure it's even been five minutes yet.

"Why is it seven anyway?" I blurt. "Who came up with seven? What's so special about seven?"

We both chuckle a little.

"Listen," Mikey says, serious, "about what my dad said..."

"It's okay, man. I don't care," I say. "We're actually a good team out there. Even though he doesn't really like me much. I'm not about to hold a grudge. They can think what they like, I can deal with it. Just so long as it doesn't get me with a set of teeth in my neck, I'm good."

"What about in your ankle?"

I grin, thumbing at the two, shallow, puncture wounds there, still aching a little under the small bandage. At the time, Tara thought it was a poisonous snake, and she yanked the thing off of me and threw it across the river and then pulled my leg up and sucked the bite.

"You know that it's only walkers that do that, right?" I asked her when we both realised it was just a Garter, still terrified despite my sarcasm, and Tara spat to the side and threw my leg down into the water with a splash, yelling, "I thought you were dying!" at me, and I laughed, and laughed harder when she kicked water at me.

"That was my fault entirely," I tell Mikey. "I'm just glad it wasn't a walker."

"So, we're cool?"

"Yeah," I say. "We're cool, Mikey."

He reaches his fist out. I almost don't see it but the change of light on his knuckle catches my eye, and I let out a snicker, reaching my good hand out and bumping his fist. We become aware of laughing, and in the other room Ron suddenly yells at Enid for something, gasping and grunting and… moaning?

"Enid!" Penelope gasps. "He's gonna freaking pass out…"

"Oh my God," Carl laughs.

"What the?" Mikey murmurs, and I realise I'm grinning.

"Enid, stop!" Ron begs, giggling hysterically. "I'm gonna pee my pants!"

"Guys?!" I call.

"Ollie and Mikey!" Penelope gasps. "Crap. It's been –like– ten minutes!"

There is scuffling, and the closet doors swing open. I squint, and Mikey grunts in dismay at the bright light hitting us across the retinas, until our eyes adjust, focusing on a grinning Penelope and a smirking Carl and a panting Bean with a wagging brown and white (and peach) tail behind him.

"Enjoy yourselves?" Penelope teases.

Quickly, I grab Mikey's hand and say, "Yep. We're dating now."

"What?!" he barks, ripping our hands apart and I laugh and grin mock-lovingly at him, and when he starts laughing to I shove him in the shoulder and tell him to get out of the closet, because—"This is _my _turf." When I'm out, too, Carl scoffs and I take his hand instead, and Mikey rolls his eyes and says, "I never knew Heaven was so dark and awkward."

"C'mon," Penelope grins, "it's Enid's turn. I think Ron's starting to regret his decision."

"What?" I ask. "Why?"

"The groping has escalated dramatically," Penelope laughs, grabbing Mikey's wrist and pulling. "C'mon."

I turn to Carl when he taps my elbow, and he leans close and whispers, "I think we should have our own seven minutes in heaven later," into my ear, and I look back at him and have to swallow a lot, nodding, because I've suddenly forgotten where I'd left my tongue.

* * *

**Carl's POV**

"No way, man."

I had a surprise for him. Oliver had no idea what it would be. I took him to our empty house, the spare key still inside the perfectly placed boot. He thought that the surprise would just be an evening spent here, reading and talking and studying... and _other stuff_. But he was mistaken. So, so, brilliantly mistaken.

I kept our deal.

Oliver stares at the DVDs I set in his hands, his eyes sparkling like flames.

"No way, man!" he exclaims again, dropping to his knees beside the TV set, clutching the DVDs to his chest. "You found them?! All three!?"

"Shh, the whole community'll hear you," I chuckle, switching on the DVD player and TV. "But yeah: Fellowship, Twin Towers, and Return of the King," I say proudly. "All three."

"Extended edition..."

"Extended edition."

I swear to whatever may be left in the universe that his eyes almost pop out of their sockets when the title sequence of Fellowship plays on the screen.

"We're doing the movie marathon? Today?"

I bend down and kiss the top of his head. Oliver actually starts trembling, and I start laughing hysterically.

"Oh my God!" Oliver goes on, awed. His eyes flicker over the screen as if he's watching a walkers' pulse return.

"Come here," I chuckle, pulling him over to the couch by a sleeve. Oliver stumbles, forgetting his feet and collapsing onto it, bouncing on top of me, and I pick up the remote and sit back and let him lean back between my legs, his spine against my front and using my leg as an arm rest. He's still trembling slightly, unable to stop the humongous grin on his face as I press play. I snicker, bobbing his body against my chest. "Calm down, Oliver."

"I love you so fucking much." He's not even blinking. "It's getting even more unhealthy."

I have time to scoff before he's twisted himself around and rather gracelessly climbed on top of me, a knee between my legs and clumsy enough that in the process he accidentally almost crushes a few delicate parts of me that both of us value quite dearly. But he's kissing me to make up for it, in our empty house, across the street from 101 and 102, with Fellowship of the Ring starting in the background, back to the kissing kissing kissing part all over again.

"Don't you... wanna... watch the... movie?"

"Not yet," Oliver shakes his head, and I'm focusing on how soft and warm and smooth his lips and palms and fingers are against my jaw and face and collarbones. "You cool with missing most of the beginning?"

"You... told me what... happens... anyway," I answer breathlessly, and he's at my neck, and it's making me gasp at odd moments because he's sits on my lap with his knees hugged around my waist and he's moving his hips in a way that makes my entire anatomy shiver in his arms. He helps me pull off my shirt and top, tracing his hands over every bump and ridge on my torso, like he's expecting to be able to reach in and touch my hammering heartbeat, hold it in his hands, _steal _it.

_"The world is changed. I feel it in the water. I feel it in the earth. I smell it in the air. Much that once was is lost, for none now live who remember it."_

Just when it's about to get good, Oliver sits up suddenly.

"What're you doing?" I ask, panting and flustered as I prop myself up on my elbows, frustrated and impatient and hormonal. Oliver grabs the remote and stops the movie mid-Elven-sentence, the TV screen freezing blue with a little white square blinking in the top left corner.

"I've decided I don't want you to miss anything."

"Then stop kissing me."

"Do you want me to stop kissing you?"

". . ._No._"

"Good," Oliver says. "Because I've also decided to thank you first."

I'm smiling now.

"Before we get to watching the movies."

He's smiling now, too.

"So, can I, thank you now, Carl?"

"Yes," I chuckle giddily. "Yes, you can."

"Awesome," he mumbles nervously, and takes my hand and pulls me across the room into the empty coat closet. "That's totally awesome," he says again, and we stand in the cramped space for a few moments, excited and indignant and half dressed. I frown in confusion because he doesn't do anything for a while, actually no, I'm possibly just more frustrated than confused, which I try to dull with a few deep breaths.

"Is this our seven minutes in heaven?"

Oliver nods. He hasn't yet shut the door.

"Well then what're you doin' all the way over there?" I ask.

"I'm stood right here."

"Exactly."

He thumbs at his bee sting awkwardly and says, "I'm taking off my clothes," but I can see his cheeks burning. I'm grinning, like a moron. A crazy, panting, love-struck moron.

"Then strip," I whisper playfully.

"I _will_," Oliver jokes, and then doesn't look like he's joking at all, and then he bails, "I mean, I-I'm not. But... I guess I could? Err…"

I'm not grinning anymore.

". . .Oh," I say.

Oliver laughs, embarrassed and covering his face. "Sorry. That's weird."

"No, it's cool," I say then. "Like, _cool_ cool."

"Cool," Oliver repeats a little taken aback, still laughing, peeking through his fingers but then dropping his hands and concentrating. He starts by my taking off his jeans and then starts unbuttoning his shirt. I don't mean to complain that he's doing it too fast, but when I do, Oliver grumbles back that he's not exactly an expert when it comes to _adult themed entertainment,_ and I laugh at him, and he laughs at himself, too, though he manages to do it a little slower, holding my eye contact as he does. I'm not sure I have words to explain what this does to me. At first I'm chuckling, blushing madly, not taking this at all seriously, but soon I'm looking at his shoulders and chest and his hands and his. . . and my expression falls, and I swear I almost _hear_ my own pupils dilate. Quite frankly, Oliver looks more surprised than anything; I don't think he really thought it'd work, and for the most part he's trying not to laugh at me, struggling to pull his last item of clothing off when his sleeves get caught around his wrists. "Ugh, geeze."

He manages to pry the sleeve off over his bad wrist, but struggles to yank off the second, blushing, cringing, apologising. But then I am there pulling his shirt away from him, a little more roughly than I'd meant to because he staggers forward with a gasp, but I catch him, and I'm getting all sorts of strange and crazy new feelings about him and what I want to do to him, and when I tell him of a few my name suddenly passes his lips before he realises it, so we share our rushed kisses, holding tight, hands wondering.

"Your socks."

"Just come on, man!"

"Okay, okay. Just a sec..."

"_Carl, _come on."

"Shut the door."

Oliver does with a slam, and out in the living room, the DVD menu sequence starts playing automatically in the background, but both of us are far too preoccupied to mute it.

"You good, Oliver?"

"Yeah." He's trembling and nodding and bracing himself against the wall in front of us when I tell him to. "I'm totally good—" We've never done it this way, exactly, so it's like losing our virginity all over again. Oliver's fingertips go white, his nails dug against the wall. "—totallytotally_totally_good!"

As it turns out, what me and Oliver do together inside of the coat closet definitely doesn't take a whole seven minutes, because by minute three or four, all composure is swept away violently and we are both already collapsing to the floor in exhaustion. Though, we stay inside the closet for the full seven minutes, at least, possibly far longer, too, simply sat tangled in a heap of skin and giggles while we catch our breath and wait for reality to come back to us again.

Oliver doesn't manage to stop laughing.

"What?" I ask finally, breathless, my chin tucked into his shoulder while he leans his back against my chest.

"Man, I will _never_ hear The Lord of the Rings' theme tune the same way ever again," he answers. It's still playing from the living room next door. I groan and laugh at the same time, kissing his behind his ear and hugging around his middle.

"_Nerd_."

* * *

**Notes**

Hello! Welcome back! Fun thingy at the end of this... btw. If you're interested.

So, apparently I'm not posting enough lovey-scenes. So I thought I'd give all you hormonal lovelies a little treat for all your amazing support.

I've been reading a lot. Paper Towns was my inspiration for this chapter. (The Garter snake part) I FUCKING LOVED THAT BOOK! OMFG READ IT! But I also finished reading August, the book Oliver had finished a few chapters back, and omfg that was so mind fucky! PLOT TWIST is real!

Holiday was incredible btw. Weird, good, bad, sad, infuriating and amazing. I met some incredible people, met some not-so-incredible people, did some terrifying and awesome things, and I wasn't religiously converted, just so y'all know. No matter how hard they tried to get me to –that part wasn't very fun at times– but, you can't pick your family, right? My new favourite place in the world is a lake cabin deep in a forest surrounded by trees and blood-sucking-mosquitoes :D

I actually started writing about it, and I was going to upload an original story on fictionpress about what happened, (Oliver somehow became the narrator/my imaginary friend... don't judge!) but the holiday sort of became a little too personal, family stuff and self discovery and emotional turmoil and all of that fun, terrifying, amazing stuff you experience in that awkward jump (scramble) of stages between teenage-hood and almost-not-really-there-yet-at-all-adulthood.

Anyone who hasn't gone through it... well... it's fucking _terrible_ :D

But anyway, I don't think I'll be writing my holiday story anymore. But it was an amazing adventure that kind of changed my life.

Anyway, about the chapter:

I realise that Mikey's mom could still be alive, as they didn't really go into her in the show, much like they haven't gone into where Enid lives or who teaches school. So, I've had to fill in a shit-tonne of blanks which annoys me, because this story seems to be the only thing in my life that I'm an obsessive perfectionist about. If by some dick, R.K. move, they do explain any of this, I'll just have to re-edit a little :)

I also realise that Oliver and Carl are settling a lot better now. Not just to Alexandria, but in their relationship. I thought it was nice to see how laid back Oliver was when he caught Carl looking at Mikey instead of getting upset by it. Like, he's been through hell just to be with Carl now, and vice-versa, and so they just don't even worry about that stuff.

Also, I just miss Nonno. Okay? I just do. So, the Oregano was for him. Fun fact, Oliver's middle name is Fabiano, after his Nonno Fabiano De Luca.

Preview: Jumping forward a few weeks (still not at the revolving door run yet) It's late, and there's a boy staring at the ceiling, and a sad girl, and another boy who's exhausted, and some talking, and some really nice music, so, someone's gotta start dancing, right?

**Favourite, follow, subscribe, vote, breath... close your eyes... count to ten... think of someone who loves you and tell yourself you are amazing and perfectly imperfect because you fucking are :) also, very quietly and very softly start whispering "beep-boop" to yourself over and over... **Are you doing it yet?

Are your smiling?

. . . You're welcome.

**Okay, about that "fun thingy" now. . .**

I wrote a Caliver AU.

Whoop. *face palms and evaluates own life...then decides she doesn't give a _fuuuuck_*

I finally got sucked into the idea, and so I did it for those of you crazy amazing creatures who asked for it, and it's super fucking fun and whathaveyoudonetome?! So yeah, check it out in my profile because it's kind of my favourite work of mine so far.

**Stale M&amp;M's: AU**

It's set in present day. So, they're seventeen-eighteen. (since the apocalypse would have happened in Summer 2010) and so yeah. With, part time jobs and babysitting and omfg a certain someone might have even gotten an adorably high spirited little brother O.O and some unexpected things and some throw backs and uncanny coincidences referring to the show and all that jazz. And it's just the boys, kind of awkwardly and adorably falling in love all over again, but, with better grammar and story-telling (because there is actually a story) and more teenagery stuff and high school shit and college applications and fear-of-growing-up-relatable-shit, and hopefully less DUCKING TYPOS.

Hope you like it. Tell me what you think (after you review this chapter though, pretty please, with pecans and red handled machetes on top)

I am actually working on original stories, too xD One involving someone with face blindness. Another about some other stuff. (I'm so good at previews!) TWD is just kind of full of too much amazingness to not think about all the time right now (an infliction that I have been plagued with and dependent on for over a year and a half now...) anyway... so... my own original writing can wait.

Once again, happy late birthday, **DarthGranola**! xxx

As always,  
Happy reading xxx :_)_


	20. Melancholy

**BloodGutsandChocolatePudding **Aw, thank you! Yep, dancing :)

**DarthGranola **Thank you! XXX Well, actually, probably not a lot. Pete has a large influence on the community, and Oliver knows this, and he was pretty brutally guilt tripped into promising not to say anything by Ron, which will certainly make him feel guilty, but he's not going to break his promise.

**The Flash Fanatic **You're still awesome, too. I missed you, too. xxx

**ILoveGoten1999 **Thank you! xxx

**Anna Katharyn **Uh... I'm not really sure what that means. But thanks for checking out the story :) x

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

I'm staring at the ceiling.

I kind of have been a lot lately. Just thinking, but, not thinking at the same time. Thinking lightly; not about death or walkers or sickness, which are subjects that come into my head frequently by cruel habit no matter how hard I try not to let it, and instead focussing on thinking about what I had for supper. I think about how Mrs. Neudermyer's liking her pasta maker, and if Aaron and Eric will ever find the last few state plates to decorate their home (I went in their house the other day and there is a whole museum of cool stuff in there). I think about if my asthma is getting worse lately or if it's just me being paranoid, and I think about the American Morse Code board over in 101 and if me and Carl will ever learn it fluently like we've been weakly trying to for the past few weeks. But it's gotten to this odd point of thinking and not thinking all at once that the things I'm trying not to think about are creeping into my mind again.

I push them away.

Go through my people list:

_Maggie – organised.  
Glenn – agile.  
Ron – a good big brother, like Patrick._

My people list only came about a few days ago. I was talking with Rosita about what we liked about everyone. It's sort of become my version of counting sheep.

_Judith – intuitive... ever-so-slightly disturbing but she's a baby so she gets a free pass.  
Daryl – protective.  
Carol – smart.  
Sasha – ambitious.  
Michonne – honest.  
Rosita – practical.  
Abraham – strong.  
Mikey – kind.  
Eugene – His mullet jokes.  
Tara – her laugh.  
Rick – a good leader.  
Enid – mysterious, to such an extent that it makes my brain hurt.  
Penelope – doesn't cry... unlike me._

Crying is something I've been doing a lot lately, too. It's nothing serious. Well, it's nothing fixable at least, and I know it's supposed to be emasculating and weak and stupid, but it just happens, sometimes. I read about it the other day. Crying is natural. Crying is the shedding of tears in response to an emotional state. Now, I'm not saying that I'm in any particularly substantial emotional state right now, because right now I'm just led in my bed staring at the ceiling. But, sometimes, the emotional states that I've experienced before will relapse. I'll find myself re-living things and remembering them and feeling them all over again. Dreams, usually. But it doesn't have to be. Sometimes the triggers can be a certain smell or sound or action, and sometimes it can be absolutely nothing at all, one tiny thought, and I'll cry until I've ran out of my own breath.

For instance, the other day I woke up crying because I had a dream that I was hugging Mika and Lizzie. Hugging and hugging and hugging, and I didn't want to let go. I was in the empty house with Carl, and he held me and whispered my breath back to me. Hugging and hugging and hugging, and he didn't let go.

A few runs ago, I saw a walker in an empty house a town east of here. He was young. Four, at most. There's not really anything I can say about seeing a four-year-old walker-child other than it's just really screwed up. Anyway, I drove Lizzie's knife through the crown of its skull, spent a few minutes avoiding the others until I could stop tearing up, then got on with my job.

Another time, I wasn't doing anything. I just sat at the edge of my bed and started getting dressed and I realised my eyes were watering, and soon, the watering became hiccups, and the hiccups became sobs, and the sobs became hunching in the corner of my bed by the wall clutching my pillow to my chest until I could stop and go downstairs, pretending nothing had happened.

Around a week ago, I was washing the dishes and Patrick popped into my head. At first I smiled, thinking about that time he and I got into a water-fight in the outside cafeteria with the dirty dish water. But then the fact that Patrick is dead also popped into my head, and stayed there, dug in deep with rotten fingernails, made me feel like I was going to explode with crying. Carl was eating a Granola bar at the kitchen island at the time, talking to me about how he doesn't get how long a dot or dash should be on the Morse Code board, but he stopped talking when he notices me. He didn't need to say a word as he walked up behind me and wrapped me up in his arms until I could put myself back together again, and I did, finally, prying myself from him and apologising for getting dish-water and tears and snot all over his clothes and hair. He didn't care. He just finished doing the dishes for me and told me to eat the rest of his Granola bar – that particular day was the worst relapse I'd had.

Until earlier today.

I was doing the laundry, putting the clothes in the drier. All it took was one glance at the utility room floor for me to suddenly get the horrible flashback of what happened that morning the Claimers found me. Luckily no one saw me as I broke apart, crumpling against the washer with my knees buried into my eye sockets. The crying sucks, but it goes away eventually.

Tonight, it's just quiet.

Very very quiet.

Noah's sleeping at the clinic again. From what I've heard, because I'm slightly terrified of Pete and am too afraid to ask him myself, Noah's okay, and Penelope said that Pete tells him that he can go home when he feels ready, but he always says that he's just still recuperating. I personally think that he stays there because Penelope brings him home-made ice cream. It's lumpy and runny and warm most of the time, but Noah never complains.

Regardless, with a lack of room-mate the quiet has been extra quiet lately. The quiet is like the quiet from when I was alone on the road after I lost Patrick. But that isn't upsetting me, actually, it isn't doing anything to me. Not right now. After the hard crying those few hours before I think I'm out of crying. I'm out of_ feeling_. Occasionally, the fleeting want for Carl to be here with me will twinge in my chest, but I push it away because we've snuck out together almost every night this week. So now, for a while, all I've felt is absolutely nothing. For a while, all I am is existing.

I am like a paradox; neither happy or sad. I either feel everything or I feel nothing. The trouble is, I can't decide which one I prefer.

_Flash-flash-flash-flash.  
Flash-flash._

It's late.

_Flash-flash-flash-flash.  
Flash-flash._

Really late.

_Flash-flash-flash-flash.  
Flash-flash._

"What the?"

I must've fallen asleep because I feel heavy and worn while I tumble out of bed, though, I guess I haven't stopped feeling like that yet since earlier; heaviness and lethargy is a side-affect of crying. Plus, the crying ended up giving me another asthma attack, which is the third one since we've arrived here. It was mild, at least, so I'm okay, just tight chested and croaky and a little afraid of letting go of my inhaler.

I know who's at the window before I even open it.

"Carl, we can't sneak out tonight." I rub my face, squinting at the torch aimed at my face. "We won't get awa—"

"It's me."

"_Nya!_" I startle and stagger back.

It's a girl, not a boy.

The torchlight flips around.

"_Penelope?_"

"Hi."

"What're you doing here?"

She flashes the torch in the same pattern as before under her face, and I see her eyes shift side to side, before the light is gone and the retina burns in my own eyes leave me blind.

"Saying hi," she answers.

"You're using Morse code?"

_Flash-flash. Flash-flash.  
Flash.  
Flash-flash-flash._

I think of the Morse code board next door, but I give up.

"Means yes," she tells me. "Two dots twice," she demonstrates, "for Y. One dot for E. Three for S."

"Oh."

"There's a storm coming."

Penelope can change subject so fast she leaves burns on you. I look at the sky when she points, seeing the clear night above. The stars and moon look so bright I see the grass when I look over the edge of the roof – now the retina burns are gone.

"Looks pretty clear to me," I say.

"I was waiting," she says then, glancing over her shoulder, mumbling something I don't catch, then snapping her gaze back to me, "you took too long to notice me."

"You were watching me?" I ask, coughing into the inside of my elbow.

_Flash-flash. Flash-flash.  
Flash.  
Flash-flash-flash._

"_Penelope_," I complain.

"Yes."

I'm frowning, telling her, "You can't just do that."

"Do what?"

"Watch me through my window."

"I wasn't there for long," she explains, "and I flashed." She demonstrates again:

_Flash-flash-flash-flash.  
Flash-fla—_

I put my thumb over the torch end.

"Rude."

"You're_ rude,_" I answer back. "I could've been jerking off or something."

"I don't care."

"_I_ do."

Her eyebrows arch, as if to say: _Listen,_ and then she does say, "Masturbation is normal and healthy. You don't have to be embarrassed abo—"

"Penelope," I interrupt. "Please. Stop."

She waves a mosquito away from her face. "You weren't jerking off anyway. And I was going to go and find Noah but I knew he'd be asleep. And, I thought you'd be asleep, too. But, I wanted to see..." I think she will finish her sentence there, but she adds, "You," on at the end, shaking her head like she isn't sure if she can keep talking. "I wanted to see you."

I purse my lips an inhale.

"You're wheezing."

"I know."

"Have you taken your Ventolin?"

"Yes."

She dips her head and presses her fingers to her temples. "Good." It's only then that I notice how tired she looks. But, like a gaunt type of tired. Even in the night, I can see the dark circled under her eyes, and the red around them.

"Have you been crying?" I ask.

"No."

"Really?"

"Enid's not home," she mumbles, as if it is the reply I was looking for. "I said I'd be fine." Her fingers rise to her lips, as if in focus, or as if hiding her mouth from me, or as if she's touching the words while they leave her so she knows they're coming out right. "I said I'd sleep. And I thought I could." She drops her hand. "But I can't, so I came and found you."

I'm staring at her.

"What?" she asks.

"Do you want a hug?"

She laughs, and then she nods, and then I'm hugging her. She sighs into my shoulder and hugs me back. . .

"You're fascinating, Oliver De Luca."

We don't pull back yet.

"I've been watching you for the last, however long, and you didn't move a muscle. But I could see you, thinking the night away. I bet if I didn't come along you'd think the sun back into the sky."

I pull away and Penelope presses her fist to my sternum.

"Fascinating Ollie from home," she muses, "see?"

My expression relaxes, but not a lot. Somehow, this is disturbing me. But in such an odd way that it's also comforting hearing her speak of me like this, too. Like this idea of me that she's created over the time without me, much like my own idea of her, has somehow warped and re-shaped into something that isn't quite accurate anymore. Like a Playdo ball. Before, it was a circle. Perfectly shaped. But now it's been moulded into a new shape. If it weren't for the colour on the outside, no one would even be able to recognise it anymore. If it weren't for her green eyes and red hair and freckly skin, and my brown eyes and tanned skin and gravity defying hair, nobody would be able to recognise us anymore. Not even we would...

"Have you been crying?" she asks me –the same way I'd asked her.

"No," I answer –the same way she'd answered. This is how I realise she was lying. She knows it, too, because she puts her fist to my sternum again.

My heartbeat is steady against her knuckles.

"Do you want to come in?" I ask.

She's mumbling. "Uh, no. Yeah, I do, but, I should probably go back now. I should probably try to sleep. I'm just not very good at it without her."

_Enid?  
**Yeah, Enid, obviously. **_

"She's... She's like a rock, you know? Like, there, all the time. She's good..." She fumbles, realising that she'd made up her mind a long time ago. "Yeah. Uh, yeah. Yeah, I'd like to come in, please."

I've never seen Penelope like this. She sounds and seems calm and collected, but the moment she opens her mouth she's scrambling all over the place like a bird trapped in a small space. Not essentially hysterical, but sort of a stifled version of hysteria, her short broken sentences quiet and soft and delicate, kind of like listening to someone sing a lullaby through a faulty out-of-range walkie-talkie.

"Where's Bean?" I ask, setting her down at the end of my bed.

She raises a thumb, "Outside. Told him to wait."

"Okay," I whisper.

Someone knocks on my door. I spin and gasp and rush over, cracking it open a little to poke my head out.

"Carol." I'm panting a little, swallowing. "Every—everything okay?"

"Hey," she says, trying to peak in. I step in her way. "Thought I heard somethin'. You fall over?"

"Oh, n-no. Yes. I tripped. Sort of."

She sighs, crossing her arms, trying to look reprimanding, but in all honestly she just looks exhausted. Yesterday there was a wedding, priested by Gabriel. Carol stayed up for hours making a cake for the espousing. She even got Carl to sculpt two tiny replicas of the bride and groom to stick on top of the finished product. He took the liberty of painting them too. Both the cake and its decorations were stunning. Throughout the celebrations, neither Carol or Carl were really sure how to take all the compliments. Carol played possum, and Carl tried to mimic her but wasn't so skilled; smiling like it hurt and nodding as if he had a pile of heavy books on his head. I just acted like I didn't feel like a proud father or something, all warm and buzzy and wanting to shout at the complimenters: "That's MY family! My family did THAT!"

The groom wore a suit and the bride wore a pretty summer dress that one of Carol's friends, Erin, made herself. She was beautiful, the bride. To substitute for a veil a few of the younger kids had made a flower-crown with ribbons and vines on the back of it.

The ceremony was nothing fancy. Just vows in Gabriel's garage-church and a quiet celebration afterwards. It was nice though, kind of perfect, actually, once I let myself think about it. I've never really been one to think about weddings and dates and things like that, but I did then, while everyone was crowded in the entrance of the make-shift church with most of us collecting in Deanna's driveway, sweating from the heat and uncomfortable in our smart-as-we-could-muster-up-clothes (Carl and I wore our usual attire, jeans and T-shirt, though instead of flannels and sneakers we borrowed blazers and a pair of smart shoes each from Mikey and Ron). But regardless of all that, the wedding was just... connected, somehow. I felt more a part of Alexandria than I ever had before.

During the vows, Carl took my hand, and his thumb —all sweaty and gross and perfect— ran across my fingers, then lingered on my ring finger for a moment longer. He didn't turn to me or whisper anything into my ear, but I heard him. . .

_"That'll be us one day."_

Or –I don't know– maybe it wasn't what he meant. Maybe I let my imagination run away with me again.

"Did you hear me?"

My focus clambers back to her, realising I'm grinning like an idiot. "Yes. Sorry, Carol."

"Then what did I say?"

"Uh... goodnight?"

She pops her hip and crosses her arms. "Is Carl in there?"

I do smile then, "No. He is not."

She looks me up and down, yawns, not falling for it at all but trusting me enough to walk away, waving over her shoulder as she turns into her bedroom. "Five more minutes," she says, "if whoever it is isn't gone by then I won't be happy."

"Will you come and check on us?"

"No," she admits from inside, "probably not."

"Then you don't need to worry," I whisper, honestly not worried. I figure the rules have been loosened slightly; night before this me and Carl were found curled up together in my room. Carl had snuck in while I was asleep so it was news to me, too.

Carol's head pokes back out of her room. . .

"Go to sleep, Oliver."

"Yes, ma'am."

"You too, Nell."

No answer, and I smile lamely, shrugging. "She's shy."

Carol narrows her eyes and points at me. "Bed. Soon."

"As soon as is convenient," is my reply.

"Oliver."

"Do you trust me?" I ask. She sighs tiredly, shaking her head in disapproval. Though, approval, too, I notice, when she smiles slightly, and I smile back.

"How's your chest now?"

"Been worse," I answer.

"That bad?" she asks. "You're still wheezing a bit."

I shake my head and shallow my breath so that she doesn't hear it. "I'm fine. Night, Carol."

She disappears into her bedroom again, and I do mine. Penelope is sat against the wall now, and I can just make out that she's facing me but not looking at me, instead looking at her hands, picking at the skin around her nails. When the door shuts, she looks up to me, her eyebrows lifting.

"Carol's my favourite," I say in jest.

"I can tell," Penelope replies. "It's like listening to you and Rosa."

It takes me a second to realise that's my mother's name, like I'd forgotten it, or, rather, haven't really let myself think about it. But here it is. Here _she _is, right at the front of my mind. . .

Rosa De Luca.

I think about her gentle confidence, her defined jaw and soft smile that neither Patrick or I inherited, her Italian accent, how she always ate avocados on her toast instead of butter and would offer us a slice every morning despite knowing we would refuse every time. She didn't like pizza, despite our heritage's stereotype, and she kept her surname after marrying Dad because she already gave up so much for him and me and Patrick, but she didn't complain once. She always told me she loved me, and I never said it back. God, I never said it back. . .

"I shouldn't have brought her up," Penelope says. I wave her away and sit down next to her, but my eyes are welling and my chest is aching. Penelope takes my hand, then pulls it up and kisses the heel of my palm. "I'm sorry, Ollie."

I sniff. "She – she used to talk to me but, like, really _talk,_" I tell her, "like she totally knew me, like I was the only person in the world, and, I just knew everything was going to be okay."

Penelope puts her head back on the wall and tips a little closer, but she isn't touching anywhere but the hands.

"Do you watch a lot of people sleep?" I ask, changing subject.

Penelope More Codes 'yes' again.

I chuckle.

"Well, I mean, I've only watched you through a window," she elaborates.

"I'm honoured."

Penelope laughs.

"Then how?" I ask. "How do you watch?"

Penelope shrugs, then says, "Me and Enid sleep together."

For a second I stare ahead of me, then frown, and when I look at her I snort. When she realises why she shoves my arm. Penelope's never been one for accidental innuendoes.

"I don't sleep a lot," she goes on, ignoring my immaturity. "Usually wake up pretty early, walk Bean. But it's still cold, so I just... watch her, you know? Enid's quite beautiful."

"Guess." I look at my wrist, picking the old bee sting scab. "She's pretty pretty."

"Extremely." Penelope smiles. "Like you – pretty pretty beautiful."

"Fascinating_ and_ beautiful," I scoff. "So many compliments. Not sure I can handle them."

She rolls her eyes. "I mean the way you're beautiful when you're here, on your own. When you're just being you."

I frown.

"Not that you aren't you when you're around us," she explains. "Well, you aren't, but no one is really."

"I'm not sure I understand."

"Well, you're one person around your friends. Another person around your family. And when you're on your own, you're the real you. Like when you're talking to yourself, or staring at the ceiling, you're you. You're fascinating and beautiful and thinking the sun back into the sky. Enid is, too, when she's asleep. And so is Noah. And Ron, and Mikey. Even Bean. The real us is the one us we really are but it's the only us we hide as much as we can."

"What about you?" I ask, my head spinning a little. "When are you the real you?"

"I don't know," she mumbles. "I think I've been here too long. I don't think I have a real me anymore."

"I think you're pretty fascinating," I say, softer than I meant to. "And pretty beautiful." She doesn't look at me, and I wonder if that sounded weird so I play it off with a joke. "You're like a mad scientist, but, with thinking and big words instead of plotting how to take over the world."

"Oh, no, I'm working on it," she jokes.

I smile, and my mind wonders to everything she'd just told me. Not really sure what to think of it all yet.

"Actually," I say eventually. "You're like a corner store." Penelope tilts her head curiously. I say, "Remember the one near your house?"

"The one that was always closed?"

I nod. "Me and you would look in the windows all the time, wanting to see inside but we never saw past the curtains. Like you. You kinda never let anyone see past your curtains. All anyone sees is your outside, you know?" I think of the Playdo. "I dunno, if you let someone in, maybe we'd see the real you."

"Everything's disappointing when you get to really see it."

"Not everything," I say. "Not you."

She turns to me. If this were some cheesy coming of age movie, this would be the part where we kiss, but this isn't a cheesy coming of age movie, neither is this anywhere near the part where we kiss, so she looks away and says, very quietly, "You only think that because I haven't let you look close enough."

"You used to."

Penelope doesn't say anything, and it's then that I begin to realise she thinks she's a monster, too.

"Saw Noah today," she breaks the quiet. "He was fine. Coming home either tomorrow or the next day. You'll get your room-mate back again."

I smile, actually looking forward to it. For the one night Noah was here, he was a pretty fun room-mate. We'd stayed up and played metaphysical eye spy. It's a game he'd gotten from a book. The aim is the same as normal eye spy, but you can only spy things that you can't see. Noah said, "I spy something that came on fast, turned nine-tenths of the population into walking-dead freaks, and left the other one-tenth to take out themselves." It, quite obviously, was the Turn. I said, "I spy something filled with supplies and optimism. There's a bird on it, and is often accompanied by terrible lyrics and loud rattling and screaming." It took him a while, but he eventually figured out it was the eagle truck. Noah didn't stop laughing, neither did I, not until Abraham wrapped on the wall to shut us up.

"So, what happened?" I ask.

Penelope shrugs.

"I can't help if you don't talk to me," I say, recollecting having to say something similar to Carl out in the woods. Why it takes so much work to get the people I care about to speak their minds when they need to is beyond me. Why I do the same thing is also beyond me, too. . .

"I just get nightmares."

"About what?"

She shakes her head. "Never remember."

"How long did you sleep?" I ask next.

"Not long. I don't sleep whole way through nights," I'm told. "I wake up, or, you know, get nightmares. They happen a lot. I can handle them, mostly. Mostly Enid's there. But she's not tonight."

It's not so much the question I ask, but the way I go about asking it.

"Where is Enid tonight?"

"Probably at the New Alcove with Ron," Penelope says. The new Alcove is apparently what one of the apartments near the brownstone apartments is called now. The First Alcove was 102. Penelope came up with the name. I looked it up in the dictionary; it means a small inhabited place, usually hidden in a wall or at the end of a garden or something. In our case, it's an apartment hidden in the corner of a community.

"She just left you?" I ask.

"I told her to," Penelope whispers. "It just... got too much. Too quiet." _Sounds familiar._ "I – I put music on, but it didn't work like it usually does. I just, needed to not be on my own. I needed a voice. Another voice, other than the ones in my head."

"Glad that's not just me."

"Yeah," she says, cracking an almost-smile. "God, I must sound like such a weirdo."

I shake my head. She closes her eyes, wincing.

"Hey," I say. "I'm glad you came to find me."

"Thanks, Ollie."

"Penelope?"

She looks at me.

"You're not a weirdo."

She lets herself smile, but it's seconds before it falls. That all too familiar vacant expression on her face is back again. I watch this happen, pressing my frown into my kneecap. From my own experiences with nightmares, and the quiet, and being afraid and sad, I know that thinking about it more doesn't help, but I also know how hard it is not to think about it. In a sense, it becomes familiar enough that it is easier _to_ think about it. On the road, all anyone could ever do for me was whisper me back to sleep again. But now, here, in Alexandria, a place that seems to give you more time to think about everything which is both a freedom and a burden, sleep doesn't have to be the only remedy. . .

"You wanna go somewhere?"

Penelope's eyes snap back to me and her orange eyebrows twitch together. She's tugging on her collar like she feels trapped in it.

"With me and Carl?" I add.

"Yes please."

* * *

Once I get dressed, we go next door together.

"Cool T-shirt," I'm told. It's dark blue and says, _'this is my lazy superhero costume'_ on the front.

"Not as cool as yours." Hers says, _'who says lemons are for lemonade?'_ I'd found it on a run in someone's bedroom and I thought it was hilarious, especially since I've read a few of Penelope's more _'lemony'_ fics. They're so good I can't even read them around people. I mean, unless it's just Carl. . . Anyway, next door.

Daryl and Aaron went on another run this morning, so there's no chance he'll catch us. He and Aaron got back only three days ago. Brought back a lot of food and supplies, but no survivors. They said they saw someone and that their trail only went dry the day before, and that they wanted to get back out there to see if they could find them again.

"Will Carl be awake?" Penelope asks while we climb the steps. Bean's sniffing happily at my pockets, licking my fingers when he doesn't find anything. I'd eaten some potato chips earlier.

"Yeah," I answer. "Well, no. But I'll fix that."

We stop shoulder to shoulder directly under Carl's window, shoulder to shoulder.

"Oh, thanks for letting us have your DVD player, by the way. It's great."

"You're welcome," Penelope says, walking back up onto the decking. "Glad you liked it."

"We did," I say, very truthfully.

I grab some dry clumps of mud and grass, about to throw it up.

"Ollie."

I stop, glance at her. She's somewhere around the front of the house. I follow her voice and find her leaning on the frame of the window I usually use to get in once Carl opens it. Bean sits opposite her, his head snapping around to me.

"What's up?" I ask, chest tight. I cough, but don't use my inhaler because I've used too much already. It's making me shaky.

She prods her fingers into the small gap and says, "Window's open."

Well, that's easier than I thought it would be.

This teenage-rebellion stuff is a piece of cake.

Over the time here, I've gotten accustom to the first house's interior layout, and so it isn't difficult to sneak up to Carl's room through the darkness, edging his door open and tip-toeing to his bed. I suddenly get carried away thinking about how many times I'm going to do this; sneak into his room and steal him away. I get my hopes up. I hold my breath. I lose myself in my vorfreude. But I stop, push my thoughts to the back of my head, and kneel down in front of him.

I see Carl sleep a lot, but with Penelope's inspiration, I take a second to really _look. _Carl looks younger when he's asleep. I mean, obviously, Carl is young, youthful. At almost fifteen, he still harbours the face of a boy, the voice of a budding man, and the mind set of both. But asleep? He really looks young.

Fascinating and beautiful.

I update my people list:

_Carl – absolutely everything._

His eyelids jitter, dreaming, and for a moment I almost can't bring myself to disturb him, and I sigh, summoning the barbarity to, though the way I carry it out hasn't really got much of an explanation. But I'm a teenager. It doesn't have to, so, _not_ in the terms of Mark Twain. . .

I lick him.

Carl startles, grunting, and his hand comes up to his eye quickly.

"What the..."

I grin proudly.

Carl looks up at me, grimacing at the wet.

"You licked me," he says, like it's never happened before (it definitely has). He wipes his eye again and adds, "with your tongue."

I laugh. His hand disappears under the comforter, then emerges from it again to touch my hand, following it up my arm to my face and tracing his fingers over my jaw. He prods my mouth with his thumb, touching my teeth when I smile, and then, for good measure, I lick his thumb, too.

"Can't you keep that thing to yourself?"

"Nope."

He smirks into his pillow and says, "Good."

"Wake up, man. We gotta go."

"Where're we goin'?" he asks groggily, rubbing the last remnants of lickage off his cheek. "I thought we weren't sneaking out tonight."

"It's a special circumstance."

Carl stretches. When Carl stretches, he squeaks through his nose. I've never told him this.

"Special how?" he groans.

"Special Nell," I answer. The nickname tastes weird.

"Is she okay?"

"Yeah." I grab his clothes, not really sure how to explain. "She just needs some cheering up."

He flips on his lamp. "She outside?"

I nod. "Bean, too."

"What do we do?"

It's funny. He asks it like she's some alien he suddenly been asked to perform advanced surgery on. Though, to Carl, and me really, the task of cheering up a girl is about as familiar as the task of making friends with a walker – potentially just as hazardous, too.

"I haven't thought of that yet," I answer seriously. "But, I know it involves music. Maybe some pudding, too, if we can find some. And some drinks. If we can find some of that, too."

"Hey, no. No drinks."

I grin. Carl frowns.

"I'm serious, Oliver. I'm not putting up with you taking all your clothes off to go throw up again."

"I'm kidding, sap," I relent hypocritically, tossing him some jeans, a long sleeve and hoodie. "Get dressed, man."

* * *

"So, this is the famous Empty House?" she asks, looking at the bug shrine on the wall. Carl and I exchange an uncomfortable look together across the living space. "Sneak out here a lot then?"

"Guess," I answer. Carl comes into the living room with three glasses of water. Bean glares at him, and Carl gives the dog a weary look as he sets himself beside Penelope opposite me. "Sorry about the mess," I go on. "It's only ever us, so, we kinda don't really clean."

Penelope shrugs, shifting her weight in her cross-legged position on the floor. "Just so long as I don't sit in any suspicious substances."

"No, not like that!" Carl hisses, his cheeks darkening. "He means, jus', general cleaning. Like, taking out the trash, dusting and stuff. We've never bothered to. He didn't mean... that stuff."

"Not always."

Carl glares at me, and Penelope laughs into her drink.

"Anyway," I go on, reaching over to put my glass on the TV stand. Despite there being a couch behind us, we chose against the floor as a seat. "We have a few CD's here. Can choose something and listen to on the DVD player."

"What've we got?" Carl asks. _Lord of the Rings_ is still in the player, and that was weeks ago; Carl doesn't say so, but he's just as obsessed as I am.

"Umm," I murmur, grabbing the stack of CDs in the cupboard and flipping through albums.

"Paolo Nutini," Penelope points, reading over my shoulder. I put it in.

"Just as long as none of them're like Aiden's run-mixes," Carl says. "I hate those."

"Well," I grin madly, "Nutini's nothing like that. At all."

We stay up late.

Later than late.

We finish Paolo's album twice, then listen to Bon Jovi's once, and are now listening to Owl City, talking quietly and eating a twinky bar that I'd found on a run. Olivia said that I might as well keep it. Carl is the first to crash, on the couch. He asked us to wake him up early. Penelope's been quiet all night, though, with the lack pf Carl, I get her talking again a little. We've been quietly debating over if Batman should be considered a real super hero or not; a life-long indifference between us. I say yes, because I think Batman is awesome. But Penelope disagrees, saying that he's just a rich guy with a bat-kink.

It takes all I have not to laugh my ass off.

"You remember my old notebook?" Penelope asks quietly, the longest sentence she's said to me since the bat-kink statement.

"Your green one?"

She nods. "Remember, I was gonna let you read it?"

"You didn't. Not after Mikey Blake stole it."

Her eyebrows lift. "I know. But, I was gonna let you read it. One day."

Those words again.

_One day._

"I promised."

"Do you still have it?" I ask curiously.

"No," Penelope admits, her head dipping, a smile stretching across her lips. "Lost it."

Pause. A long one.

"I been thinking of home a lot," she says finally. "Old home. It's only fifteen miles—"

"Fourteen point eight."

Penelope stares at me and I try to smile, but my lips move stiffly and rigidly, realising I should explain. . .

"I've had time to do the math."

"Wait, you wanna go home, too?"

I look at Carl.

"Ollie."

I look at her. "What?"

"We could," she says, starting her sentence like she doesn't have the breath to finish it. "We could go home."

"Why do you want to?"

"You don't?" she asks.

"I asked you first?"

She sighs. "I just do."

"It's not important," I say. "It'll just end up with us getting killed."

"So, you don't wanna go back?"

Again, I hesitate.

"Ollie."

"Carl and I planned to a long time ago. But, we never did it. We had to get here."

"You are here."

"Yeah..." I let out a long sigh, looking away, seeing her smile out of the corner of my eye. I look back to her. "I know we are."

"Then why're you over thinking this?"

"My parents are there."

Penelope curses. "I... I just, assumed. Everyone was evacuated."

"No," I say. "Not us."

Her eyes suddenly widen. "Your mom. You said she got mugged, on the phone. I never put it together."

"Yeah," I wince. "She turned. Got Dad. We didn't know what was happening, so, we shut her in her bedroom. Dad up only had scratches, so we patched him up."

"You still get infected if—"

"I know," I interrupt. "now – I know that now."

She bites her mouth. "Of course you do."

"Why are you letting me tell you this?" I ask, not meaning to suddenly sound defensive. "Whenever anything like this comes up you try to avoid it."

Penelope frowns. "You said before at the party that you wanted to tell me. So I'm letting you."

I shift awkwardly, then nod. "Well, I slept in Pat's room for the rest of the night. He didn't say it, I didn't either. But, I think we knew." I rub my forearm when I get cold. "Dad turned. In the morning, me and Pat shut him in with Mom."

"They're still there."

I nod even though it wasn't a question.

"Carl agreed to go back one day," I say, "put them down with me."

She smiles. "That'll be good for you."

"You still wanna come with?"

She thinks about it, then shakes her head, smiling. "I think it's something you both should do together. One day."

"One day."

For a moment, we fall quiet, listening to Owl City play softly in the background. . .

_'You and I left our troubles far behind.  
But I still have one more question on my mind.'_

"Is that what happened to you? Evacuation."

My chest stings when Penelope doesn't respond.

**_She doesn't want to. She told you that. She respected your wishes, now you respect hers._**

I sigh.

"Yes," she says suddenly.

Caught off guard, my breath rushes back in.

"Mom, Drippy, Dad, Bean and me."

I hadn't ever planned what I would say if I ever got this far. It had always just been getting the answer, not about what I would do with it. I close my mouth, letting her speak, like her voice is a robin landing on my hand by accident; an event so startling I can't even react without risking her flying away.

"Most of Lorton was moved to some evac centre close to here. Nearer to D.C.," she says. "I looked for you. The first few days that's all I tried to do."

I purse my lips, my heart swelling and aching all at once.

"Kept, looking and looking, but, then people started asking me if I'd seen other people, their family, so, I started looking for more people. I had a list, in my notebook, wrote all the names down, looked all around the evac centre. Hundreds of names. And everybody was so afraid and hopeful at the same time. And, they kept... thanking me... even though I hadn't found anyone yet."

She pauses, like she's trying not to scold herself.

"I only found one name on the list." She looks up at me then, a small smile flickering over her expression. "But it was worth it. I saw a dad find his daughter."

Penelope shakes her head.

"We were only there for a few days before we were moved again anyway," she explains. "Some got moved to Atlanta. There was talk about Kentucky, and New York. But, yeah, military sectioned us as evenly as they could, but some families got split up. Ours almost did. We were gonna get moved to Atlanta, at first, but, they'd put Dad up for D.C."

"Why?"

"There was a mix up, they didn't realise he was with us." Tate wasn't actually Penelope's father. He was just her mother's boyfriend. He was Korean, too, so with Tamara, Drippy and Penelope all looking so similar, the officers probably hadn't made the connection that Tate was part of their family too. "But Dad kept us together," she says, and by the way she trails slightly I get the feeling that a lot more went into it all than that. "And we were moved to D.C. It was nice, cleaner, bigger. Better walls, not so scary or crowded. But, no dogs."

"No..."

Penelope smiles sympathetically, her ginger eyebrows rising at the middle. "Drippy and I cried so hard when they told us we had to leave Bean behind. So, I guess they did split up the family in a way."

"How'd you find him again?"

"We didn't," Penelope almost laughs, but like a slow, nostalgic laugh. "He found us. Just, showed up at D.C. a few months later. Think he followed the army convoys and found a ride. He sorta became their mascot. Drippy saw him first. Sat up in the back of an army truck with some soldier."

She smiles for a moment, thinking of a good memory.

_So there were some at least._

"She screamed – Drippy. Mom and Dad were helping bring in more supplies. I was in the tent when I heard her, thought she was getting kidnapped or something, but, then, we saw, and... Bean was just... there. Like always."

I smile. "That's amazing."

"Yeah."

"How long were you there, the evac centre?"

"Few weeks. There was talk about getting us to a better place. 'Cause people were getting sick again, going hungry. Dying."

"The better place, was that here?"

She nods. "Heard the name, Planned Community of Alexandria. But it was for rich people. You had to pay to get in. It was horrible, watching people beg, fight. Didn't matter anyway. Evac centre got overrun a few weeks before they even got to the moving."

"You were on the road?"

Penelope nods uncomfortably, dipping her head. I get the feeling that that point in time was where the bad stuff started. So, I alter my question, going at asking it in a way that won't make her fly away.

"Bean... How did he survive? How did he stay with you?"

"Sometimes I thought he wouldn't, when... when he'd go off without us." Us._ So she got out with others, hopefully some of her family at least. **Oliver, you're on thin ice. She isn't saying so, but she'll crack if you aren't careful.**_ "But he was always there," she goes on quietly, looking like she's thinking about what she says as hard as I am, "in the background, watching us. Guarding us."

We go quiet again.

"So, what's with the hair?"

She looks up to me, smiling in confusion. "I told you... it's systematic."

"I mean in regular English."

She sighs. "Systematic - logical."

"Logical?" I ask curiously. "Like, it's helped you?"

"Like it's well planned out."

"How is short hair well planned out?"

**_Thin ice, Oliver._**

She starts listing off on her fingers, beginning to look tired as she rests forward on her elbows. "Rotters can't grab me so easy, there's one well planned out perk."

"True."

"It isn't so noticeable. I mean, ginger isn't the most incognito colour in the world."

I grin at that. "I've always loved your fiery locks."

"Yeah, well, that's another part of the systematic thing."

"How?"

"People won't like me so much."

She'd said it suddenly, like she'd dared herself to.

"Penelope," I say. "I didn't mean, you know, like like. Like that."

"No, I know," she says, meaning it. "I mean other people."

I frown.

"Strangers. Bad people," she tells me. "Experience and research has shown that young girls with long hair and gender matching attire are more at risk. So, cut the hair, wear boys clothes, big coats."

"Oh," I say, thinking: _experience?_

I swallow.

"Systematic," Penelope tells the carpet.

"Systematic," I echo.

She inhales, and then sits up, changing the CD to something I don't recognise. The music is soft and sad and delicate, and it seems to mellow her, so we listen, and I become aware that her mellowing isn't essentially just mellowing. Instead, she becomes like the music, which, I know doesn't make much sense. Though, I'm starting to realise that sometimes it's hard to describe an experience with Penelope into words that do make any sense. But, it's like she becomes soft and sad and delicate. But, like she's just returning to normal, like she's used to it, almost comfortable in her melancholy; complacent.

My mind traces back to that jumbled sentence from August. _'He could not tell her of the fear.'_ Beckett wrote. _'The perfect fear. That was his alone.'_

I think I understand it now.

"Penelope?"

"Yes."

"Are you okay?"

She watches me, then takes out her flash-light. . .

_Flash-flash. Flash-flash.  
Flash.  
Flash-flash-flash._

I purse my lips. "Do you mean that?"

_Flash-shine.  
Flash. Flash._

I don't know what this means, but I can guess. . .

"Me neither," I say.

Like Enid that day, I look into Penelope's eyes, and Penelope lets me. I realise now why Enid was looking at her like that. Like _this_. It's the only way you can look at Penelope if you need to see what she's feeling. Mikey was wrong. Penelope is sad. Behind the smiles and the big words and the jokes and the quotes, through the shop window and past the curtains, Penelope is the saddest person I've ever met.

It's only become apparent to me lately that emotions and feelings can become familiar. Like my familiarity with the outside, how, despite it being bad a lot, I still crave to be a part of it. That old friend hiding in the shadows. Like Bean when he and Penelope were on the road, watching over her; there as comfort for when she needed it. To me, outside is my comfort. To Penelope – to Nell, melancholy is hers.

"Do you want to dance with me?"

Penelope looks up at me, looking like I'd just asked her if she wanted to come sky-diving with me. I smile and stand up, hands on my hips.

"You look like Pan."

"Peter?"

She nods.

"C'mon, Wendy," I say. "Let's fly."

"I'm no good."

I shrug, "Me neither. Not sure if you noticed, but I never got to grow my own pair of wings."

"I'm not talking about flying, Ollie," she says, and I just grin. Penelope sighs, then asks, "Got any fairy dust?"

"Sorry," I smile sympathetically. "Ran out a long time ago. Tinker Bell's still pissed at me for running off into the apocalypse."

She smiles so broadly that for a second she seems to light up, like her own supply of fairy dust had suddenly sprinkled across her face, hidden between her freckles.

"Same," she says. "Tink can be such a hot-head sometimes."

"I know," I roll my eyes, presenting my hands, "it's infuriating."

Then a song comes on.

We turn our heads to the CD player, distracted. I've never heard a song like this one, so I have no name for it. It's just a song, like a favourite song, even though I don't know it. _The_ favourite song. I hear the lyrics and everything they make me feel, like that wash of _something_ it gives me. I exhale, and as I inhale again, the sound flows over me, through me, into me.

This is my song.

This song, I think, is different for everyone.

* * *

**_Play your song.  
The one I think of is "Perth" by Daughter.  
But that isn't your song. Your song is your song._**

* * *

Penelope's hands slip into mine and they're cold against my palms and fingers. I pull her to stand, and she's fumbly and self-conscious like a small fish in a tank too big.

"God, you're more awkward than I am," I tease.

"Well, that's saying something, huh?"

I grin and put her hands on my shoulders, laughing when she gets all bashful about it – she, at least, isn't uncomfortable. She steps closer, actually: a three or four-inch gap between us. I put my hands on her waist when she nods to say I can. The _'lemons'_ shirt is soft and smooth under my fingertips.

"I think this is the part where we move," I say quietly, glancing down at our feet, which are firmly planted against the carpet. When I look up at her, she arches her eyebrows, lost.

"I can't."

"Wendy," I say to her, quoting the book she'd finished reading (again) yesterday, "the moment you doubt whether you can fly, you cease forever to be able to do it."

She sighs impatiently, "I knew you'd read it."

"I've read everything."

"Not _Hunger Games_."

"Okay, fine, not that," I relent.

"You will, soon."

I smirk. "Shall I lead?"

She nods, glancing at her feet again. "I think the boy's supposed to."

"I thought you weren't into gender segregation."

"Oh, quit talking and dance. Dork."

She starts pulling, deciding to lead after all, and I stumble after her, giggling and snickering and moving my feet. We're amateurish, obviously, and it doesn't take me long to stand on her toes, and a few seconds later she trips over her own feet, and we chuckle about it and try again, and again and again, until we're just messing about, moving our bodies however way we're comfortable with, swaying and turning and stepping and coordinating uncoordinatedly. I have to use my inhaler at one point, and I even get her to spin under my hand and it's fun and makes us laugh.

"Aaron wasn't kidding about the dance troop, huh?"

Penelope laughs, twirling under my hand again, and then we're slowing with the song as it starts to finish. She has her cheek on my shoulder, forehead against my neck, hands gripped and supporting herself on my shoulders, completely comfortable. I'm looking at Carl, who's still fast asleep on the couch. He's got a little frown on his face, breathing through his mouth.

"Are we flying yet?"

"Yeah," Penelope whispers back, hugging me a little tighter while we slow dance. "We're flying now."

We make a few more slow circles around the room.

"What's the word for tonight then?" I ask.

"Huh?"

"The word," I whisper. "You know, one that sums up tonight? There's gotta be one."

Penelope lifts her head and frowns at me, though, thinking about it. . .

"I don't know."

"Yes you do," I smile. "There's gotta be one floating around in there somewhere."

She sighs, rolling her head back a little to think. My hands come up a little just under her shoulder blades, supporting her. She looks back to me, smiling. . .

"Tarantism."

I wait for her to elaborate.

"Overcoming low-spirits by dancing," she says. "It's also a disease you get from a spider bite."

I scoff. "You're kidding."

"No, really," she says. "I read it somewhere."

We make another twirl.

"Low-spirits..." I say.

She shrugs, "It's whatever."

"I have nightmares about the walkers, mostly," I tell her. "And, sometimes they're about someone trying to hurt me, hurting me, or they're hurting the people I care about and not being able to stop it."

"Me, too."

"Is... Is that what happened to you? Did someone hurt you?"

I felt her tensing. It makes us stop dancing. We stop breathing. The music feels stale, all of a sudden.

"I'm sorry," I tell her.

"Me, too."

She's crying, I think. I don't hear or see it, but I feel the dampness on my collar.

"Someone hurt me, too," I'm saying. "Tried to hurt Carl, few weeks later."

That's when she looks at me, her expression emotionless and blocked. Her lips are closed. I know that no amount of looking will let me see into her thoughts this time, because her eyes are no longer green, but black, pupils so blown that it's hard to look at her at all. It's like staring into a dark cave, one you're afraid of entering because you can hear the growls coming from inside.

"I wasn't raped," I say. It's something I feel like I shouldn't say, something I feel like I shouldn't talk about. But sometimes talking about something is good, even if it was bad. Because yes, someone hurt me, touched me and made me do things I didn't want to do, and I'm still effected by it today, but I survived, and I shouldn't feel ashamed by any of it.

I touch the scar across my lip, pressing down the phantom pain like I have to sometimes ..._stop your squirming..._ I hear the rip of his zipper, feel the squeeze of my face against tiles and his fingers and hands and mouth. . .

"What happened to the person that hurt you?"

"Rick gutted him."

"Good," she says, and steps away, brushing the invisible locks behind her ear while she lies down on the floor. She turns away from me, and I know our conversation is over.

* * *

**Carl's POV**

Something taps my forehead and I brush it away.

"_Mhuhh._"

Another tap.

"Oliver, stop."

He rolls over onto his front, grumbling. But the thing is, I realise I'm sprawled across him and I'm rolled over, too, and there's a foot against my stomach, another foot, socked, above my head. Unless he's been keeping some pretty impressive flexibility skills a secret from me, it isn't possible that all of these limbs belong to him.

Another tap on my forehead.

"Oliver," I groan. "I'm awake. Cut it out."

"Ughhh. It's not me, man."

More tapping. I frown, brush it away, open my eyes, holding on to the chilly finger-culprits. Green watches me, and I sigh and rub my face.

"Mornin', Penelope."

"Hey."

Coming to my senses, I pull myself to sit up. All three of us are on the floor, blankets and cushions ordered into one big cocoon. Thing is, I remember falling asleep on the couch, so – "How'd I get here?"

"Don't look at me," Penelope says tiredly, yawning.

I stretch, and for some reason she laughs but I don't know why.

"I pulled you off," Oliver answers, his voice croaky and tired and groggy. I love this voice.

Still, I say, "Ass."

"What?" he defends, "I got cold."

I scoff, and he hums a giggle. Penelope, too.

"What time is it?" I ask.

"You said to wake you up early," she says, petting Bean, "feels early."

The sun is only just starting to rise but the sky isn't colourful like it usually is at this time. It's dull and grey and yellow, like it's angry. One look out of the window shows a heavy Virginian overcast, dark grey clouds moving across the sky; towering over the community. For some reason, though, they don't feel imposing. It's exciting, like some kind of brewing energy. It makes the hair across my body stand up, like there's electricity in the air.

When I touch Oliver's hand, a lightning bold shoots between our skin. I see the flash. It startles both of us and he grunts and I yelp, and for a second I think the air really is electric, rubbing our stings, but then I realise it's just static from the carpet.

"Jesus Chris," he says, testing again and this time touching me without calling God's wrath. I spend a second stroking the place I shocked him. He's falling asleep. When Oliver's sleepy, he likes this. I'll play with his hair or touch our noses or rub my fingers up and down his wrists.

Penelope reaches over and stuffs her hand into his front pocket. Oliver grumbles, but doesn't show any more resistance while she rummages around inside his pocket, his hips jolting. Then Penelope pulls out Lizzie's watch. I scoff at them, an Penelope says, "It's about six. You guys better go before you get caught."

"Think we can make it back?" I ask Oliver.

He shrugs and snatches his watch back.

"I'm gonna head off now," I say. "Gotta get home before Dad goes out for work. He'll check on me."

"I'm up, I'm up," Oliver says to himself, bringing himself to his knees.

"Yeah, me too," Penelope agrees.

I'm grinning. It's nice they're choosing to leave with me so early. Nobody usually checks on Oliver in the morning until around eight or nine, which is when Carol gets ready for work, so he'd probably be safe staying here for a while. I don't know about Penelope. She and Enid live in one of the brownstone apartments next door to Olivia's, since she's more or less their guardian.

We collect our things. Penelope takes the Bon Jovi album for Ron and one of the praying mantis sculptures when Oliver and I tell her she's welcome to them, then we leave out the back door. Penelope goes left and Oliver and I go right. The air is thick and windy and still tastes like electricity.

"See you for school," he says to me once we stop on the grass verge between our houses. "I'll be the one asleep at a desk."

I laugh, and he's crossing his arms and swaying back and forth on his heels. For a moment, he looks like the Oliver back at the prison, the Oliver I'd known for only a few weeks, all awkward and fumbly and crushing on someone he thought he shouldn't be crushing on.

"Don't worry," I say. "I'll put a book in front of your face so no-one notices. Just don't snore." I tip forward, teasing him. "You'll blow your cover."

Oliver tips forward, pressing our foreheads.

"I'm pretty tired, too," I admit. "Some guy crept into my room last night, convinced me to sneak away with him, said it was a special circumstance? Somethin' like that."

"Right," Oliver plays along, absolutely loving the sarcasm. "I heard about that. Heard it was a special _Nell_ circumstance."

"Right, yeah, the Nell part. That was pretty nice of him."

"That guy," Oliver says. "Heard he dragged you off a couch too. Actually, I heard he made out with you the next morning, too."

"Oh? I don't remember the last part," I say to him. "When did that happen?"

"Actually," Oliver whispers, chin tipping up. "Right about now."

Our lips barely touch when the sky opens up. The rainfall is like a bucket on our heads; thick, wet, heavy, Virginian, and we're wincing and gasping and dipping our heads to peek glances up through the down-pour. Oliver grins at me, and I laugh, starting to shiver already while cold soaks into my clothes and hair.

"Are you gonna make out with me yet?" I ask.

"If it wasn't such a cliché," Oliver says, "totally."

_Screw that, you pretentious dork! _I want to holler, but lightning flashes across Virginia and we both look up. It's bright and blows up clouds, coming from somewhere so far away the wall blocks our view of it.

"One, two..."

"What're you doing?" I ask him.

Oliver glances at me. "Counting. Four, fi-"

Thunder shakes the very earth under our sneakers. We feel it in our chests. Oliver's breath hitches, his feet shuffling under him, and his hand finds mine quickly, gripping it with wet fingers.

"Scared of thunder?" I ask.

"I think so," he answers like he's only just realised. He's trembling. "It wasn't much fun last time."

I purse my lips sympathetically, remembering that night in the barn, the storm and the walkers.

"It's the lightning you should be afraid of," I tell him. "Not the thunder."

"It's loud," he says.

"It's sound," I say back. "Sound won't hurt you. It's what caused it that will."

"You're not helping, Carl."

I grin at him and squeeze his hand. "You should go inside. Want me to come with?"

He shakes his head. "I'm fine, man. But I take back what I said..."

"Huh?"

"The cliché thing."

I grin at him. Butterflies. Soggy, floppy, clumsy butterflies.

"I think we sh—"

Another flash of lightning, turning the new-born sky into a Van Gogh painting.

"One, two, three..."

I haven't stopped staring at him, watching his Adam's apple as he makes a nervous swallow. It's odd, this feeling; far too body-exiting. I want to comfort him and drag him to the dirt under the porch, get that feeling I get when his heels are digging into my back and I'm gone gone gone in him. It's a judgement that I'm not sure I should trust as entirely as I do right now.

"Four, five," he counts, breath fast and swallowing again. My hand comes up, pressing to his sternum. His heartbeat is so fast, hammering against my palm.

"Six..." I'm counting now, too, slower than him though, much too distracted by all the Oliver in front of me. "Seven. Eight."

_CRACK!_

Oliver flinches, baring his teeth and bringing his shoulders up. But he doesn't stop watching me. His heartbeat vibrating now. My fingers press against it possessively, water from his shirt running down to my elbow.

_CRASH!_

A flicker of a smile touches the corner of his lips, the rest of his body shivering – from the cold I presume, or maybe the fear, but thinking more about it... maybe not that at all.

"It's just passing by!" I call over the rain, my eyes falling to his lips, then to his collarbones, watching the tiny water droplets scattered across his skin and decorating him like a glass sculpture. I'd make that sculpture. I haven't tried carving before, but I would, with wood. It wouldn't be like glass or anything like that but it would be a start. A wood carving of collarbones and chest and navel and jaw and lips. . . "What were you saying?" I ask, stuttering. "Before, about the cliché thing?"

He chuckles. It's all broken up by the rain, his brown and wet hair forming in clumps against his forehead and temples and neck. His eyelashes are sticking. Suddenly taking his under-bite in my mouth seems like a good idea, but I hold back.

"I was gonna say," he begins, "I think we should probably get to that! The whole cliché thing."

I pull him into me, and then, Oliver and I kiss in the rain. I love his under-bite. I love his collarbones. I love the birthmark behind his ear, and his pornographic eyebrows, and his too thinly perfect lips, and his hands, and his forearms, and his shoulders. IloveitIloveitIloveitIloveit. All of it. All of _him_. This should be embarrassing, what I'm thinking, what I'm doing, how much we both can't seem to stop smiling even with all the kissing. But it isn't. It's him and it's me and it makes sense even though we're laughing goofily and shuffling clumsily and freezing our balls off and kissing kissing kissing.

We've pulled apart but we're all tangled and flustered and drenched and panting. Again, he presses our foreheads, brushing our noses, blinking so close to me our eyelashes flutter. I can taste the rain that has trickled down our faces, like it's Oliver I can taste; diluted into the water.

"I love you, man."

I inhale, trying to capture his words and keep them forever. As he turns and leaves, my mind traces back to the wedding yesterday, and I smile after him, the rain breaking up how easily I can see him. He takes one last glance at me from the cover of the second house's porch and waves. I wave back goofily, one thought running through my mind. . .

_I'm gonna marry that boy._

_One day._

* * *

**Notes**

Thank you, **Eli-XD-o **for the "crying sucks" bit. You're awesome!

I got the batman argument from vlogbrothers. Because, yes, I seriously am obsessed with Hank and John Green at the moment. As you might be able to tell from all the references :) If there are any other nerdfighters out there, what do you think? For or against Batman?

Anyway, I loved writing this. The last part was for you **BloodGutsandChocolatePudding. **You mentioned a while back about a Ferris Bueller's Day Off AU for Carl and Oliver, and it's pretty safe to say that it is never happening haha so I thought I'd give a little tweaked reference to it just for you xx

Oliver's getting kinda sad lately, huh? Guess it's just a side affect of the Apocalypse, right?

Little side-note thingy. I wrote that part at the beginning, about Oliver crying and feeling like a paradox because someone told me a few weeks ago that boy's aren't supposed to cry.

They are.  
You are.  
So fuck anyone who says differently.

Also, writing Penelope and Oliver like this is kind of helping me at the moment. Depression is not a particularly nice thing to live with, and being able to relate to them is sort of comforting, to me at least, so, yeah, I just hope that some of it was at least a little comforting to some of you who might be in a similar boat, and I'm hoping at least a little that it's making for a better story.

**Preview: **It's a few weeks later, and the power has gone out. Oliver and the Runners are getting ready to get the batteries.

**Don't forget to check out the AU!**

As always,  
Happy reading :)


	21. Spend, Part 1: The Beginning

**BloodGutsandChocolatePudding **You're welcome!

**Blood on my Machete **I seriously adore you. I can't believe you came here. It seriously means the world to me that you enjoy my stuff so much, it seriously is so rewarding and I couldn't ask for better feedback, you're just... awesome. Drag on as fucking far as you want, seriously. It is so helpful to me and I love it so freaking much! Thankyouthankyouthankyou!

**DarthGranola **Yeah. It was pretty sad. Writing it is very interesting to me and kind of a fun challenge. But thank you xx

**ILoveGoten1999 **You are great _and _amazing.

**eli-XD-o **Thank you! Adore you!

**inazumahunter **Ah, hello! Omg I missed you. So glad you're still here x thank you! And fuck, I'm so glad you like her. I've loved seeing you guys grow to like Nell. She's very rewarding to write, especially in later chapters :) xx thanks!

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

_It's funny, fear._

_We all experience it one way or another. Maybe it's fear of a calc test, fear of spiders, fear of the dark, fear of speaking your mind, fear of coming out of the closet, fear of leaving, fear of staying... fear of dying._

_There are these things people do when they're afraid. Like, really, really afraid. You'll bunch up your shoulders, avert your eyes, shorten your breath, tense up every muscle in your body, and in some extraordinary cases maybe even bring your hands up to cover your eyes, all this and you'll hardly realise it. It's normal. I mean, if you make yourself smaller, seem like less of a target, that thug walking towards you on the side-walk isn't going to want to beat you up, right? Your parents and siblings might be less likely to tell you that you aren't part of their family anymore, you might not have to fail... you might not have to succeed._

_Trouble is, nower days, thugs and family and failure aren't the only problem. It's the dead. Walkers, biters, geeks, whatever you want to call them. They're the main problem. They don't care how small you are, how afraid you look, how much unlike a threat you seem. Just as long as you've got a bucket load of that red, wet, tasty stuff pumping around in your body with every heartbeat, you're going to be the target either way._

* * *

It's April.

We celebrated Carl's fifteenth yesterday. Jessie made a banner, Carol made corn casserole and cookies; there weren't enough ingredients to make a cake but she still made every cookie either a _'1' _or a _'5' _shape and he totally loved it. After a family meal, he and I watched a movie at Mikey's with the others, Noah included, and we played pool and drank a little because Nicholas was out planning today's run with Aiden, and when we got back together in the evening, Carl got surprised with a bunch of presents that everyone had collected for him. He got a drawing pad from Rick, a movie from Glenn and Maggie, some chocolate from Michonne and a music CD from Sasha, and he almost hopped on the spot when Daryl handed over a set of used watercolours – he said he didn't find a paintbrush but Carl's been using his fingers anyway. I had my own surprise for him, and while he was downstairs with the others I was up in his room setting everything up: opposite his bed, I used pins to string up almost an entire wall of fairy lights. When he came up to find me he almost dropped everything in his hands in shock, and he stood gawping for a few minutes before he looked at me and said, "Whoa." The rest of the room was dark, so the wall looked like stars, and we stretched out on the floor together and stared at it for hours, talking and kissing and being (among other things), until we decided to put them away again so we wouldn't use up anymore electricity.

We've been in Alexandria for three weeks now, roughly, give or take a few days or so. I'm still Running a few times a week. It's like being back on the road only with a lot less starvation and a lot more help and confidence and there's no more that that _'nowhere to go back to'_ thing. Time _in_ Alexandria has been good, too; settling in, normalising ourselves to hot showers – not to mention the hot shower partner on one or two million occasions. We're so clean. If Alexandria's water supply dries up, blame me and Carl.

Remaining time consists of, mostly, school, cooking, videogames (although not recently), hanging out with everybody, and so much target practice I once accidentally holstered a BB gun instead of my Glock. Life's pretty routine here. Occasionally, time gets jumbled though. Merges together. Makes one day seem like five. A week an hour. Like most things lately, I'm not sure if it's a good thing or bad. Also, I think I'm just about used to the sleeping arrangement now, but mostly because half the time Carl and I find some way to get around it without getting caught.

We're good at doing things without getting caught.

There's so much testosterone. _Honestly._ I'm surprised hormones haven't started spewing out of our ears sometimes. Sometimes I'm surprised I can tie my own shoelaces, or say sentences without the word _sex _interrupting after every syllable. It's hazardous. Not to mention being lucky enough to have two consensual bodies and minds to use to satisfy each other whenever we can, and sometimes when we plain _shouldn't_. The sex is fun; breathtakingly and awkwardly and astonishingly fun, but it isn't everything, and I'm not trying to brag or exploit. I'm actually not entirely sure it all isn't cause for concern to be honest. Thing is, rebellion is our main motivator. We look for that odd temporary oblivion like moths to flame, walkers to flesh, people to happiness. . . because that's what everyone's looking for, isn't it. Only, to everyone else it's called something a little different. It can be adding an extra chocolate ration to the cookies, spending ten extra minutes out hunting, or staying up to read one more chapter. For Carl and I, the key to our temporary oblivion is usually the words, "Wanna get out of here?" or, "I found something," or, "I have an idea, man." Every time either us say it, a rush of adrenaline consumes us, and I'll take his hand, or he'll take mine, and we'll run away into our temporary oblivion together.

We swim in the lake and play pranks. We lie along the house's roof and watch the sun back into the sky. We read so many books we have whole mornings where we'll spend our time figuring out who we need to return them to – Carl won't let me keep a stash. We've snuck out a few times, too. Outside the wall. Exploring the area mostly, avoiding more walkers than we've had to take out. Neither of us say so aloud but we're still hoping to run into Enid one of these days. We want to know what she's doing, if she's doing anything (other than being a peeping tom) and Carl still wants to know if she likes us. One day she'll be friendly and sociable, another she'll be cold and distant. We never see her outside anyway.

Right now, it's early.

Carl and I are in the first house finishing breakfast in the kitchen. Everyone is still asleep except Rick and Abraham; who are at work. Judith woke up and only needed a diaper change. We would have fed her, too, but she looked sleepy so Carl put her back to bed.

"You've got the warehouse run today."

I glance at him across the kitchen island. Then back to the coffee I'm making. Because yes, I'd managed to use the stove without setting fire to anything, and double yes, apparently I like coffee now.

There are lots of things I've figured out I like now. I like to lie in grass while someone plays with my hair. I like to sit on top of the gazebo and count clouds. I like pasta, and I like the smell between Beans paws. I like Penelope's insurance, when she acts as our alibi while Carl and I slip away together, where we can kiss and get kissed. I sit on Carl's chest and hold his wrists down and whisper things into his ear until he's so worked up he can't take it anymore. And sometimes we don't do that kind of stuff at all, and we're just there, alone and doing absolutely nothing else other than being. Sometimes not even talking.

On one particular occasion, we'd been lying on the floor for hours, and I'd finally asked, "Do you ever get scared that something you think is the right thing could turn out to be the wrong thing?"

"Like what?" he asked.

I said, "Like, putting down walkers. Like, maybe there really is someone still in there...?"

Carl watched me then, said, very carefully, "I know she said that stuff to you, but—"

"Wait, who?"

"Lizzie," he said. I frowned. I thought he was twisting my words, but then I realised Lizzie _was_ why I'd asked. "I know she believed that," Carl went on gently. "But, Doctor Jenner, at the CDC, he showed us..."

"I know," I said truthfully. "But I've seen a walker hold a doll. I saw one use a rock to break a window. Jenner's wife was only one walker. _One._"

Carl watched me. I didn't feel like an ant under a microscope, which I appreciated. I could see him wanting to believe, and I could feel myself wanting to, too, even though I didn't. _Don't._ He said, "I'd rather be put down. I know I would if I was a walker... I'd rather that over watching myself that way. I'd rather be stopped before I hurt anyone."

Ever since the outbreak, an unspoken social rule had developed across the whole world. It was to never talk about this kind of thing. Once, Patrick said to me, "Oliver, quit thinking that stuff. It's weird." The subject is terrible, I know, but I wanted to talk about it, and I could, with Carl.

Penelope was wrong about one thing, that night she waited outside my window. She said that everyone hides the true version of themselves when they're around others and that the only person who really sees who you are is yourself. Well, I've become aware that this isn't entirely true. Because when Carl and I lie there, on the kitchen floor, cold from the tiles on our backs but warm from our hands tangled into each other's, just there, I am nothing other than me.

"I know you get real sad sometimes," Carl had said. "I do, too." Three days before that, I'd found Carl in his bedroom with Judith. He was hugging her and he was crying. "And I know that sometimes it's hard to know if you're good," he went on. "But, I think it's like that. Neither black or white. A spectrum, you know? Like you and me."

"How?"

"Like how we're not just one thing. We're a collected amount of one things," he said. "Like, you're a boy, and part Italian, and, wait... Jewish, right?"

"Yeah. Dad's side."

"And you're favourite colour's red, and you like weird music, and you're bad at cooking."

"I'm better."

"Yeah, well, you're not good," he said. I thumped his arm. Carl continued: "Like how you like some boys, and you like some girls."

"I like you," I said then. "I love you, actually. If we're being specific."

Carl smirked.

"And you're a selective sap," he said. I laughed. "And you're good with a machete and gun and you look really hot in a beanie."

"Stop," I grumbled. "Sap."

Carl smiled. "But, you know, you're grey. Neither black or white, see?"

"I think?"

Carl looked away then, up at the ceiling. "You know when Michonne talked to me? Outside of Terminus – day you and Carol saved us?" I hate it when people say that. Sure, we saved them. But we destroyed families, too.

"Yeah," I whispered, "but, not in detail."

"We were jus' talkin'. After what happened the night before I was still pretty shaken up, guess. She was talking, but, she didn't understand." He sighed. "I said to her that I was just another monster, too. And I mean it. I — I did..."

I looked up at him, and I watched him frown.

"She thought I was afraid," he said. "Of the walkers, of what was gonna happen when we got there, of Dad. But that wasn't it. I wasn't afraid of them, or Terminus, or him. I was afraid of myself. I wanted..." He held his breath. "I wanted to kill him, the claimer, for what he did to me. For what he did to you. I wanted to _help_ Dad."

There's this way Carl has. This way that makes you think he's totally got himself figured out. He's serious when he should be, but he laughs at jokes, smiles and appreciates the pretty things that are easy to miss, and he's smart. He talks and walks with a confidence and casualness that I could only imagine myself pulling off. But in truth, he isn't figured out at all. No matter how much of a man people believe and tell him he is, he's only human. A teenager. A boy. He gets scared. He gets angry. He gets stupid. He forgets things and puts his shirt on inside out. He cries. And more than anything, he doesn't want to lose himself.

Just like me.

I don't know how anybody expects us to know who we are when our personalities were thrust from normality before we'd even grown to understand them.

My eyes were shut, and what he said next broke my heart. . .

"The thing I'm most afraid of is that one day you'll look at me and see me the same way I see myself."

After he'd told me that, I curled up to his chest and cried like a baby. I told him about the breakdown in the utility room, how sad I get, how afraid I am sometimes of what I might do because of it all, and how guilty I felt for everyone I could have saved but didn't, and how, no matter how Carl saw himself, he was not a monster, and that he never would be, and that I wouldn't be either.

Now, Carl sighs. . .

"You're Olivering on me again."

Apparently, according to Carl, if you look under the word procrastination in the dictionary, my name comes up instead. I take the hot mug and set it in front of him, the corner of the island between us, then cross my arms and lean forward on them. My chin touches the cold surface and I look up at him, touching my forehead under my hair with my thumb. The wrinkles there from my up-looking expression could match Rick's.

Carl pulls a face. I realise I'm Olivering again.

"Sorry, man."

Carl shrugs, taking the mug and sipping, grimacing and wincing both from the heat and the taste. Carl still doesn't like coffee. He watches me drink and I watch him watch that, then I set the mug down and grimace to entertain him. The coffee is pretty bitter, but I still like it. Carl smiles, only a little, but it's something.

He's worried.

He always is when I run.

But like always, he's keeping on a brave face.

"I do," I say, "have the warehouse run, I mean."

**_I mean it only took you ten minutes to answer._**

"You should add sugar," Carl says. "To the tar."

"Coffee."

"Gross."

"Helps me run."

"Makes you taste weird."

I scoff and go grab the sugar from the pantry.

"Hey," he says after a second, "I thought of another one this morning."

"Pun?"

"Yep."

"Tell?"

He clears his throat. "Where does the king keep his armies?"

I'm grinning, waiting, and then Carl lifts his arm. Pulls at his flannel.

"In his _sleevies!_"

"Get out," I joke. Carl laughs. I open the sugar. "Hey, you sure I can use this?"

Carl nods, "Just use a tea spoon. Nobody uses it 'cept Carol for cookies but she cooks next door anyway, so, yeah."

"Okay. There."

Carl takes the mug. I was still stirring so I put the tea spoon in my mouth.

"How is it?" I ask. His nose is in the cup and he's sipping and I'm watching his eyebrows. They are usually the place to look when his eyes aren't available to read. His eyebrows say: _I'm only mildly disgusted. _Then he reaches forward, grabbing the sugar and pouring a little more in, before plucking the tea spoon from my mouth and mixing.

"My spoon," I complain.

"Hush," he mumbles, drinking.

"Well?"

"Better," he reviews, setting the mug in front of me.

His eyebrows say: _Now you taste..._

"Wait, you like it?" I ask, feeling the heat of the mug against my palms, smelling the sweet.

"I said it was _better_, not good."

"Whatever," I smirk and take another drink. It is better. But to me, coffee is coffee. It makes me feel like I've taken some kind of limitless drug. I react quicker, run faster, think clearer. But I don't have it often. Carol said it was okay just as long as I didn't start relying on it. It just comes in handy for days like today.

"Want coco instead?" I ask.

"I don't think we have any."

"I can go next door?"

His eyebrows say: _Really? _and he asks, "You have coco powder?"

I nod. Carl considers it, nods, and I'm about to go but he changes his mind.

"No, wait." His hand grabs mine, stopping me, and when I look back at him his thumb runs across my wrist. "Uh, don't go, yet." He fumbles to regain his nonchalance. "It's fine. I don't want coco."

I'm not going to lie, this small snap in his front successfully brings a lump to my throat. But like him, I keep on a brave face, ignoring the sympathy because I know he'll only feel guilty for it.

"Juice?" I ask instead.

"I'm good," he answers, and instead takes another sip from my coffee mug. He doesn't grimace. His eyebrows say: _I prefer this than you leaving… _which, again, causes the lump in my throat to grow. "No more small runs anymore," he relays what Glenn'd said yesterday when he'd asked if I wanted to go. Carl says, "This'll be important," and hands me the mug. "We need the power."

The electricity went out two days ago. Me and Mikey were getting some extra text books for school from his garage and everything went black.

"Whoa..." I said.

"Where are you, man?" Mikey asked.

"Pool table. Follow my voice."

He did and found me, knocking over the cues and we both made an effort to put them back in the same place so his father wouldn't get angry. "I can't believe the generator even lasted this long," Mikey said. I was holding onto his shoulder and following him back upstairs. The steps were rickety and wobbly, and my toe caught that last one and we both staggered and tripped through the door into the living room, landing in a heap. We laughed about it and only jumped out of our skin when we realised Nicholas was stood in the archway, holding his breakfast and still in his pyjamas. He didn't look impressed while we scrambled to pick ourselves up again.

"The hell's going on here?"

"Oh, Dad. Didn't know you were up yet. There's a power-c—"

He held a hand up and scrunched his face. "Oliver, I'd like you to leave."

"Dad. We've gotta go to school."

"Then stop messing around and go to school!" Nicholas hissed back. "And stay away from my _damn _pool table, the pair of you! I don't need your filthy prints staining the suede."

"Whatever, jerkoff."

Mikey grabbed my arm and I barely stopped myself from dropping the textbooks while he dragged me towards the front door. Mikey didn't get along with his dad, but not like Ron didn't. Nicholas never laid a finger on his son and I could tell because Mikey calls him jerkoff. As we left, Nicholas called, "Don't be late home! We're watching Terminator tonight!" and Mikey yelled back, "Fine! Love you!" and Nicholas said, "You too, Michael!" It wasn't until we were at school that we realised the whole community had no power, too.

But we're changing that today.

I'm drinking more coffee, gripping Carl's hand because he still hasn't let go. I stroke my thumb over the back of it, feeling all those delicate little scars there. We're sitting at the island, shoulder to shoulder on stools. I look up. There's still a faint scar on his cheek. His permanent reminders, too.

"You'll be fine," he says.

"Yeah," I say. "All of us will, man."

He only hesitates for a moment before talking again, and I look at him, and he rests his chin on my shoulder. This morning, sitting on a couch or lounging on a bed felt too far away, somehow, and even now, sat shoulder to shoulder with him, all I feel is too far away. "And," he adds, his chin moving against my shoulder as he talks, "you'll find the micro-inverters."

"We will," I nod. "And-"

"You'll get them back here to Eugene and he can get the power back on." I think Carl knows the plan better than I do. "And, nobody's gotta get hurt. Nobody's gotta die."

"No." I roll my eyes. "Nobody's gotta die, Carl."

I swivel our seats so we're facing each other, crossing our legs at the shins and sharing his foot-rest.

"Nobody's gonna die, Carl. Not today."

"Oliver..."

His eyebrows furrow, voice very small, eyes fixed and intense and so blue it hurts. I look away, trying to discourage the topic, but Carl isn't letting go of this.

"Oliver, I don't feel good about this."

"You're only hurting yourself by worrying," I tell him.

" I know. "

"Then don't dwell on it," I insist. "If you can't help it, think of something else."

He nods and moves in to kiss me.

"Coffee," I mumble self-consciously, pressing my tongue to the roof of my mouth.

"I said it makes you taste weird," he says, "not bad," and then we're kissing, and he does something with his own tongue that makes me startle, "swear."

I think I know what he wants to do to stop worrying, but still, I ask, "Have you thought of anything yet?" and his answer is succinct. . .

"Oliver."

I swallow. "Wanna get out of here?"

_Temporary oblivion._

**_Cue the testosterone hurricane._**

My stool legs scrape and hands wander and Carl is getting shoved onto the countertop and it doesn't occur to me that we might be skipping the actual _getting out of here_ part until his feet are hooked around the small of my back and I'm kissing kissing kissing him. My hands find his belt, un-slip the tail, unbuckle the—

"Hey, anybody got a pen in there?"

Without a noise, I slump onto my seat again, and Carl has put the coffee mug over his lap; more out of instinct rather than needing to hide anything yet. I still grimace at him because I'm still drinking, and Carl widens his eyes for me to get over it, and then his father walks into the room and we both have to get back to the whole, _What? No. We weren't really just about to impulsively have our way with each other on the kitchen counter at all!_ thing.

He double takes when we just stare at him, pretending our hearts aren't beating a hundred times a minute, surging blood into rather inconvenient places in our bodies at the moment, and I realise this when Carl really does have to use the mug to hide himself a little.

"Boys?"

It's only then that I realise we hadn't answered him. Can't even remember what he'd said.

"A pen. Mine ran out."

We could still bring this back if Carl and I don't both grab the pen between us at exactly the same time. We flinch at each other, pull our hands away, then grab for it again only for the same result. Finally Carl snatches it and throws it across the room.

Jesus Christ.

Rick's left brow us stargazing. The other joins it, but either he doesn't catch on –doubtful— or chooses to ignore it –more likely— because he just shakes his head and says, "What's the plan, Oliver? Time're y'all leavin'?"

I check Lizzie's watch.

Six-forty-five.

"We'll go help pack in a little while, leave by eight."

Rick nods, glances at his son. "You're helpin'?"

Carl nods. "Packing the van."

"Eagle truck," I correct him, and Carl's eyes roll at me. I smirk at the floor.

"Bean?" Rick says suddenly.

"Huh?"

"Bean! C'mere. Bean..." –sigh– "Oliver? Could you?"

Confused, but catching on, I whistle. The whistle Bean responds to the best is Rue's four note song, because yes, Penelope likes the series _that_ much. She got me to finally read it, too, and I'm not sure anything has recently made me so angry other than the fact that the trilogy was never finished. I read Penelope's fanfiction finish though and it was still pretty breath-taking.

The Collie pokes his head into the house, looking nervous and uncomfortable. I crouch and hold my hand out, and he takes another step, freezing when he sees Carl, but comes inside when I coo again. Carl rolls his eyes and sips coffee. Rick shuts the door.

"You drink coffee now?"

Grimacing, Carl spits back into the cup, "Oliver does."

"Well not _now!_" I grimace. "Gross, man."

"Oh. Sorry."

I roll my eyes and push the mug away with the end of my finger, turning to Rick, "Where's Penelope?" I ask, because there usually is one wherever a Jelly Bean is involved.

"She jus' left next door with Noah," Rick answers. "They've gone to go meet up with Reg about Noah startin' a new job or something? I said we'd look after Bean for a while."

Noah's already up and walking. He's not totally back to new, but he's accepted he never will be. He doesn't have any bandages anymore and he can put his weight on it with only a slight limp when he runs, but even then it's not a big hinder, not nearly as bad as before. He's happy with it. Happy enough to agree to come on the run today. He even went so far as giving Penelope a piggy-back yesterday evening, which she adamantly refused for about three seconds before blushing redder than her hair and climbing onto his back like he'd asked.

"Architecture?" Carl says to me.

"He must've finally agreed to ask," I say. Helping to build stuff, that's what he's always saying he wants to do. But he wasn't sure Reg would let him. For weeks Penelope's been encouraging him to.

"Yeah, Nell's gone with him and then she'll help out at school right after," Rick tells us. "She said she'd see you when you got back."

"Oh. Right." I don't mean for my heart to sink a little. I'm glad she and Noah get along so well, but – "I thought she'd see me before I left."

Bean's scratching at the door.

"Bean," Rick murmurs. "Away."

The Collie stops, whimpering for a second. He doesn't like being apart from Penelope. He sits on the mat in the living room.

"Sorry," Rick says to me, "what'd you say?"

"Nothing."

* * *

"Ack – Carol!"

She's hugging me. Has been for the best part of a minute.

"C-Carol. Can't _–ack–_ breathe right now."

She doesn't let go, kissing the top of my head, swaying now. I look to Carl desperately. He just grins and his eyebrows say: _I'd be doing the same thing if she weren't._

"Okay. Ugh! Please?" I grunt, amazed my ribs don't crack again by the time she's released me. I wait a moment for a head rush to go away.

"You're growin' up so fast." She pushes my beanie back, brushing her fingers through my fringe. "How'd you get to be so big all of a sudden?"

"Carol." I laugh at her, putting my beanie back. "I'm the same age as when you met me."

She huffs and hugs me again. I grunt and fall against her, laughing into her shoulder but then burying my face into it, hugging her back. It's nice, Carol's hugging. Her hands are cold and she'll squeeze them against my shoulder-blades and pinch the crook of my neck with her chin.

"I'll see you later, Carol. Try not to worry."

"I like to worry," she says. "Makes me feel productive, even when I'm not helpin' anything."

She steps back to let me talk to Rick. I'd already said I'd see everyone else later before. Daryl and Aaron left to start their scout a little while ago, but Daryl and I had managed to exchange a quick, "Good luck," to each other before he left.

Rick lets out a sigh as he hugs me to him, kissing the top of my head with a gentle squeeze to my nape. The same way he does to Carl, and I try not to feel like I'm going off to college or something. It isn't really that far off the mark.

Oliver De Luca  
Graduate of the Alexandria Safe Zone Runner's University.  
ASZRU.

**_Jesus, that's a mouthful. I think you should just stick to, "Hey, I'm a Runner."_**

"Stay safe," he tells me. "Do as Glenn and the others tell you, alright?"

"Yes, sir."

"No one–"

"No one gets left behind," I finish for him. He gives me the same speech before every run.

"That includes you, too."

I take a deep nervous breath.

"Oh," Rick says. "I want you to take your machete."

"You sure?"

"It's yours."

Carl had collected Lizzie's knife for me earlier, which I can just see its outline under his shirt, hiding it for me until I leave so that I'm not caught.

"Proud of you." Rick pats my shoulder and smiles. "Alright, g'on. Both o' you."

"See you," Carol says.

I wave to them both and Carl and I leave, summoning Bean to come with us. Carl is holding my hand, keeping that little piece of each other close until the last moment.

* * *

"Pistol?"

"Check."

"Machete?"

"Got it."

"Inhaler?"

"Yep."

"Beanie?"

"_Pfft_. Always."

"Good. Here's Lizz–"

"Wait. Not here. Olivia's just in the pantry."

"Right."

"C'mon, man."

"Wait."

"What's up?"

"Kiss..."

"Check."

* * *

We get to Deanna's house.

"Hello, boys."

"Hey."

"Morning, Mrs. Monroe."

Deanna smiles warmly, rubbing between Bean's ears when he sits beside her. "You can start loading up," she tells us, watching as Maggie, Tara, Glenn, Nicholas, and Aiden start getting the eagle truck ready. I think I love that truck almost as much as I loved the fire truck.

A little while later Eugene comes to help us. Reg and Noah, too; loading supplies and ammo and anything we'll need. Bean dodging out of the way as we all work around him, eventually finding an empty spot by the garage door behind Deanna and Reg.

"He can go back now. Nell's home," Noah tells me, hauling a rucksack. Despite surgery, Noah still has a permeant lean in his posture. It's like he's stuck walking around in some invisible, horizontal bed or something. He pulls it off though.

"I'll take him back when you go," Carl says.

"Thanks." Noah and I say it at the same time, and we look at each other awkwardly.

"Did you get the job?" Carl asks Noah.

"Yeah," he smiles, pocketing a grey notebook that I recognise.

"Is that Penelope's?"

"Reg's," he says. "Gave it to me to write down the plans for building designs."

"Cool."

"I don't think Nell'd give up her notebook for anything."

I grin in agreement, tossing a dish towel at Tara when she asks. Eugene pulls out an empty battery from his supply bag, the same battery we're looking for today.

"Oh, no thank you," Eugene says nervously when Noah presents a handgun.

"Jus' take it," Nicholas grumbles.

"You gotta protect yourself," Noah insists more gently, and Eugene just stares at him. Not interested. I help Maggie carry a case of rifles towards the van.

"What's up with them?"

"Eugene's coming," she tells me.

"Oh."

"Not if I don't go!" Eugene's arguing. I can't help but roll my eyes. Maggie too.

"Not drivin' all that way so we can just drive back with the wrong shit," Aiden tells him.

"It's a dozen o' these," Eugene holds up the empty battery. "They're consistent in appearance across manufacturers. This shit will be right. I-I-I will install said shit. Then that grid will be fully operational again." Even Penelope finds the amount of big words Eugene uses disconcerting.

Noah gives him an exasperated look and pushes the gun to his chest. Eugene takes it, giving me a dissatisfied glare when I try not to smirk. I check that my Glock is full and that I've got an extra magazine in my pocket. That's thirty-four bullets. Noah continues helping and Tara tosses a supply bag at him.

"Heard you talkin'a Nell las' night," she says mischievously, "what's her story?"

I glance up at them from the truck, holstering my gun.

"Why'd you ask?" Noah asks her.

"No reason," Tara teases.

"_Mhm..._"

Tara lifts her eyebrows.

"Tara, c'mon," Noah says, "she's sixteen."

Tara scoffs at him, then glances at me for my input, seeing as Penelope's my best friend. But I just shrug. I knew that Penelope and Noah were friends, good friends, and I suppose it's not impossible. They are only a little more than two years apart in age, and they'd probably make a good couple. But knowing Penelope, I'm sceptical.

Noah glares at both of us, before turning away to go to the garage.

"What, it's an innocent question!" Tara grabs him. "Don't make me hurt you."

Maggie smirks at them. I laugh and search through the rifle case, setting three more rifles down, sure there's enough ammo.

"Use this," Maggie tells me, handing me a pistol silencer. I thank her, slipping the grey tube into the side of my holster, my pocket stocked with an extra magazine too. Aiden's saying goodbye to his parents and just behind them, Carl and Bean are beside each other. Carl's hand's rested on the dog's back and not moving, which might not seem much in the way of amending their friendship, but it really is an improvement.

The other day Penelope and I went downstairs to get a glass of water, and when we got back upstairs we found Carl stood like a statue in the corner of his bedroom staring at Bean, who was sat in front of him, just sat there, staring like he was ready to chomp his testicles off if he moved a muscle. I had to stand between them while Penelope growled for him to go away as punishment, and for the rest of the evening Bean sat outside Carl's bedroom door sulking.

Proud of himself, Carl grins at me across the garage. I grin back, dangling a leg over the back of the truck.

"That's everything?" Glenn asks us all. Tara nods as she walks past.

"Yep," I grunt, climbing off the truck. Glenn and Maggie kiss and my eyes fix on Carl as he walks over. I crouch and scratch Bean's neck, muttering my _goodboy_ to him, again, procrastinating, because this is the part about running that I like the least. After a second I stand up and hug him. He presses his lips to my neck, hugging me back and swaying us on the spot.

"Stay safe," he mumbles into skin. I feel him slip Lizzie's knife into its sheath on my hip. I kiss him quickly and quietly and firmly, pressing our foreheads when we break apart.

"Thank you," Carl says. He does that; thanks me for kissing him.

"See you before sundown," I whisper.

He nods against me, his hand on my nape, and then I pull away —the worst part— and don't look back as I climb into the truck with Noah, Tara and Nicholas.

"Daylight's burnin', let's go," Aiden yells, hanging out of the driver door. Glenn nods to him from his conversation with Deanna and Reg. Aiden gets into his seat, starting up the engine, and Eugene gets in, too, looking slightly mortified while Glenn joins us a few moments later. Maggie, whom he'd just parted from, steps over to Bean and Carl and puts her arm around his shoulder.

"So seriously, though, about Nell," Tara pesters Noah again, "what's her story?"

Not even I know the full answer to that, and Noah is about to admit the same thing, grinning incredulously and twisting his silencer onto his gun, but suddenly music blasts from the truck's stereo. I don't even flinch anymore, instead, my hands simply rise and press over my ears, letting out a long irritable sigh.

"Great!" Noah shouts. "_Another_ mix."

Tara throws her hands up in exhaustion and Noah does too in reply. Glenn laughs at them, and I just try not to let my ears explode, hearing through my palms dubstep so loud I _feel _it and a female British voice saying things like, _"Is she hotter than me? Would you fuck me? Are you gay?"_ and _"You blocked me on Facebook,"_ and _"Now you're going to die."_

"Helps draw 'em away!" Glenn shouts, always trying to find the silver lining. I sit back in my seat, which is really just a space on the floor beside Tara, grinning to myself as we all drive out of Alexandria with music blaring, definitely doing _something_ to lure any loiterers away. I peer out of the small back window. Carl and Maggie are still there, watching us go, and I put my hand up against the glass. Carl waves back, and we keep watching each other until the truck rounds the corner and we can't anymore. I sit back again, taking a breath and holding it.

"Hold this a sec?" Noah tells me, and a notebook is thrust into my chest while he rummages through one of the supply bags.

"I'm gonna snoop," I mumble, and either Noah doesn't hear or he doesn't care, so I flip open his notebook and read on the first page. . .

'"This is the beginning..."'

* * *

_Fear is like a monster._

_When encountered by it, it can make you faster, smarter, stronger. But it can also make you stupid, weak, confused. To everyone it's different. Always. Fear is like a monster. Whether it's in your head or right in front of you, when it comes down to it, it's always going to be your choice what you'll do about it._

_So, you can either fight the monsters, or become them._

_Today I'm going to be afraid._

_Really, really afraid._

_The kind of afraid that I'm not sure I'll ever be able to come back from._

_My gun will be fired empty. My muscles will be worn to exhaustion. I will see the first bite before a hundred that follow. I will hear their mocking snarls, their snapping jaws. One – it will place a rotten hand on my wrist, and it will yank, bare my palm with its other, and I will smell its rot and feel its shriek and I will brace for the pain to rocket and for the blood to pour and for my life to leave me slowly and cruelly, and with it, just another name to check off the list..._

_We fight the dead. Everyone knows that. The thing that's so easy to forget is that we've got to remember to fear them, too._

* * *

**Notes**

That _sleevies _pun, though... xD

Hope you all enjoyed x tell me what you thought?

As always,  
Happy reading :_)_


	22. Spend, Part 2: Falling

**DarthGranola **Thank you x

**BloodGutsandChocolatePudding **o.O Oh my God. Thank you. You're so nice.

**eli-XD-O **Thank you! Yeah, I was gonna take the check list out because it was nothing but dialogue, and I was worried no one would know who was talking, but I sort of took a leap of faith, because people reading this know Oliver and Carl well enough to tell, so it was nice seeing you say that xx

**The Flash Fanatic **Oh wow. That's so nice. I would die if I met you, too. You're so awesome!

* * *

**Carl's POV**

The dog follows me like a shadow. I try not to pay too much attention to him. Penelope said he likes that; being in the background. It makes me uncomfortable.

I see Dad on duty, heading towards Ron's garage. I'm pretty sure Jessie's in there. I'm pretty sure they're having an affair. Except I know they aren't because I go and hide behind the banister to spy on them and they're just talking about the owl sculpture. Someone broke it. Dad says he'll find who did it and Jessie asks what he'll do to them when he does and he tells her about The Broken Window theory: "You keep the windows intact, you keep society intact." _Blah blah blah,_ I think, _better be no more cheek kissing or _I'm_ breaking a window... over Dad's head._

I don't know why I'm so mad about that night. I don't know why I'm so mad in general. I think it's part of the human condition. No. The _teenage boy_ condition. I don't see grown men being so insecure about this kind of crap. I didn't see Invincible crying over his parent kissing someone else's parent. Maybe I just have to wait until I grow out of it. Or maybe I'm just worried about Oliver too much. Crap. Maybe I'm too clingy. Maybe Oliver goes on runs to get a break from me. Except when I asked him if he ever got sick of me one time, he punched me in the arm, so maybe I shouldn't worry about that.

I hear Dad leave the garage and I grab Bean's collar before he blows my cover to greet him, and when Dad's gone, I walk the other way. When I get to the girls' house I knock on the door and wait. Bean's sitting by my side. I think we're almost friends. His tail wags like helicopter blades.

Enid answers.

"Hi?"

She's is like coffee. Bitter. Needs sugar. Still, this isn't her being unfriendly.

"Hey. Is—"

She goes inside before I finish my sentence. She left the door open though, so Bean bounds after her. I cautiously poke my head in. Enid yells, "Nell! He's back," and then disappears into the living room. I'm not sure if she means me or the dog.

I hear a loud bump upstairs and a high-pitched grunt. It wouldn't be the first time I've shown up here to find one or both of them still getting ready. Once Enid answered the door in her underwear and a half-buttoned-up flannel shirt, brushing her hair. I keep thinking about it hung all wet and brown and straggly over her shoulder. And another time Oliver and I saw Nell stroll across the landing wearing only a towel. She didn't see us, luckily, and just went into her bedroom, but it still took us a few seconds to stop gawping. We talked about it later and decided:

"Girls..."

"I know."

"...look different..."

"I know."

"...when they're wet."

"Wh — _God._"

"No, no, not like that. I mean..."

"Yeah..."

"Seriously though."

"Seriously..."

"Cool."

"Pretty cool."

"Pretty nice."

"Pretty."

"Yeah..."

"Yeah..."

I stop thinking about it.

The girls' house is messy and no floor is left without at least one pile of books somewhere. One wall in the hallway has a whole wall stacked high. Enid has this big shelf in the living room filled with all the millions of little odd junk she's found outside the wall: tiny action figures, a glass dolphin with its tail snapped off, a few watch heads, an hourglass, a little Captain America shield. There's even a diamond ring. A _big_ diamond, too; covered in dirt and mould.

I can smell something.

Eggs, I think.

Penelope shows up, wearing a faded purple Mutant Ninja Turtles T-shirt and no socks or shoes on. She's borrowing one of Oliver's beanies. Neon blue. On the way down, she throws on a black bomber jacket. Bean bounces alongside her.

"Where'd you find eggs?" I ask.

"Runners. Found some feral chickens," Nell says. Oliver didn't go on the last run, so he didn't tell me this.

"Didn't keep them?"

"They died on the way here."

"Why?"

"Shock, I guess. Brought back a few pre-harvested eggs though. Enid's happy. Eggs are her thing." She smirks at me when I inhale. "If you want some you might be able to get the last few from Olivia next door."

"It's okay. I ate already."

"Can you throw me my socks?"

She hops on one foot to put them on. Penelope has a habit of shedding her clothes. I'll find sneakers behind my door, socks under the rug, sweaters on the window ledge. Once, when she'd slept over Oliver's, I came by the next morning after she's gone and found her bra in his bed. A running joke is for Oliver to put her clothes on, sweaters and shirts, and he convinced me to do it, too, over my shirt, and to not say anything about it until she noticed and got all embarrassed, but it backfired when my Dad walked in on Oliver helping me clip the bra straps on around my back over my flannel shirt. . . Dad just sort of looked at me for a few seconds, and I looked at him, frozen. Oliver was still stood behind me. And then, without saying a word, Dad just nodded once and backed up out of the room like he'd forgotten he needed to be somewhere else. I was so embarrassed Oliver just sort of hugged me for a while.

"Well," Oliver shrugged, "for finding out his son's a cross dresser, Rick handled that pretty well, really."

I yanked the bra off over my head and said, "I'm not a cross dresser."

"Nothing wrong with it," Oliver shrugged. "I kind of like it."

"_You _made me!"

"Exactly." He kissed me and I kissed him back, then thumped him in the ribcage.

Now, I realise I'm grinning when Penelope asks me, "Did Ollie go?"

"Yeah," I say. I don't ask her why she didn't see him off. I don't tell her that he really really wanted her to.

"You can stay here for a bit, we'll go to school later."

I nod and follow her into the living room. Enid's sitting on the couch, reading a comic. Bean slumps beside her. Penelope pushes him out of the way and take his spot. Enid doesn't take any notice of Penelope while she curls up into her. I think Penelope Rostenkowski is the only living person on earth who could ever get away with it. She even holds her hand and puts her head on her chest. If I tried, or Mikey or Oliver, or maybe even Ron in the wrong circumstance, we'd lose a testicle.

Enid looks up at me and frowns. I'm still standing here. Quickly, I take a seat beside them. Penelope is staring at the radio, like she thinks she can think it back on. Sometimes she listens to this weird British educational CD about Romans, that or orchestra compilations. I think it's the only thing Enid and Penelope clash about. Enid likes silence, I think, but Penelope can't stand it. . . so she fills it with the sound of her toes shuffling against the couch. A bird tweets outside. Bean groans softly.

"Someone broke the owl sculpture."

I jump at Enid's voice, then casually say, "Yeah. Saw."

Penelope is frowning.

"Sam did it," is how Enid replies, even though Penelope didn't ask aloud. Penelope looks at her. Enid looks at her, too. They're talking in their heads. Talking in Enellolect. Penelope looks back to the radio and this is the end of their conversation.

Penelope and I decide to play cards – I had a deck in my pocket. Bean is glaring at me, but his head is also rested on my knee so I don't know what to make of him. Penelope just laughs.

"Can you tell your dog to control his mood swings?" I grumble, shuffling. "One moment we're friends, another he's ready to tear my neck open."

"You can start by calling him Bean."

I sigh. . .

"Bean."

He looks at me.

"I'd like it if you didn't threaten to kill me anymore."

He blinks.

"What do you say, Bean?" Penelope asks. Bean's head jolts between Penelope and I, muddled by the overuse of his name. With a groan, he switches knee: Enid's.

I grin. "Guess we're cool."

"Guess so."

I dish out the cards. Penelope and I talk about Noah and his architecture job. I mention that Tara thinks she and Noah are dating, and Penelope scoffs and says, "I love Tara."

"So, you're not? You and him?"

I get a look.

"Guess no," I say.

Enid is who answers: "Not yet."

Penelope gives her the same look she gave me.

"It's not a bad thing," I say, not really knowing where I'm going with this. "Um, you know, to, uh, like someone, like that."

"I don't like anyone," Penelope groans.

It's me who gives _her _a look now.

Penelope sighs. I get the feeling this is a hard topic for her somehow. She says, "I like people. I do. I like Noah. I like you. And Enid. I like Oliver. Mikey. Ron and Sam. But like. That's all. I just don't want to bone any of you."

I giggle. I hate my giggle. I never giggle. It's embarrassing.

"Tell him what it's called," Enid says, not looking up from her comic.

"Asexuality," Penelope says.

I pull a face.

She says, "It's a thing. Look it up in the dictionary."

"I did," Enid cuts in, "it said you were a slug."

They don't look at each other but they're both smirking.

"Come on, Constable's Kid," Penelope ignores her, "what's your move?" I fold. Penelope tells me, "Try not to dwell on me or whomever I choose to spend my time with, please."

"_Whomever,_" Enid teases. I try not to laugh. I still get kicked in the thigh.

"Okay, okay. Sorry."

"C'mon," Penelope smirks. "Your move again."

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

There are two buildings conjoined by a chain link fence that stretch around the whole compound. We've got our gear on, supplied up, and Aiden's taken Glenn's suggestion to do a perimeter check for all exits in case things go south. Tara and Eugene are checking the right side of the building. Glenn and Noah, the left. Me, Aiden and Nicholas, the middle.

"You're lettin' that punk take charge," Nicholas warns. "Don't."

"They know what they're doin'," Aiden says. I can see the fence ahead. "Doesn't hurt to get help."

Even though I'm right behind them, Nicholas pulls my shoulder and tells me, "Don't fall behind." And then when I'm about to walk ahead, he pushes me aside.

"Sendin' a damned kid out here," he grumbles. "What the hell're they doin'?"

Aiden shakes his head like he's got a few things going on in there. But he doesn't share his thoughts. I roll my eyes at them both. Nicholas is fiddling with a mesh gate, then starts trying to break the lock with his knife. I look through the fence, then, in one kick, knock the gate wide open. They both stare at me. I just shrug and wait for them to lead the way in.

It's another courtyard. There's a door at the other side leading into the building, but it's boarded up, locked and blocked from the outside. Nicholas clicks at me, summoning me like a horse as he stands by the next chain link fence that the front and parking lot is on the other side of.

"We gotta go over," he says, "see around front." He crosses his arms and leans on the fence. There is a pause. He tilts his head at me. "Find something."

With a long sigh and another eye roll, I get to it. They don't help. It occurs to me that I'm being bullied. It's been almost two years since I was last bullied.

"_Stronzo cavolo rugose_."

"What did you call me?" Nicholas growls.

"Oh," I smile, "means... uh, strong cool... person."

He glares at me. I'm thinking of all the books in his house and thanking my lucky stars that none of them are Italian to English dictionaries.

I go over to a pile of trash and rubble. It's the flies I notice first. I pull away a metal slab. There's a growl coming from under it, and an arm sticking out at me. A rotten head lifts, spilling maggots, and before it even opens its mouth I crouch next to it and—

"_Oof!_"

I'm knocked off my feet. Reflexively, I swing around and catch my ambusher across the jaw with my fist. It's Nicholas. Of course it is. I very carefully don't slash my knife across his throat, but he does stagger back onto his ass when I kick him in the leg.

"You fucking punched me!"

"_Yeah_, man!" I say, so angry I'm close to bursting into tears. "What was that for?"

"You wanna get yourself killed?!"

"What?" I grimace. "It's _one_ walker."

"Hey!" Aiden barks at me. Nicholas steals my gun. Before I can do anything, he turns to the walker and sends a silenced bullet through its skull.

"What the fuck? We need the ammo, fucker!" The words escape me before I know what I'm saying. They both look furious.

Aiden hisses, "I'm not gonna be responsible for getting the twelve-year-old queer killed today!"

My expression drops. This isn't the first time he's said something like this to me. Without a word, I snatch my gun back, knife too, and walk away, flipping them both the bird over my shoulder. Someone grabs me. When I hit the wall, I grunt. My face is pushed flat and my chest is shoved hard against the stone, and this is when I start to panic. I try to push myself over onto my front, to see, but he's too strong.

"Stop," I gasp. "Get off me!"

My arms are twisted behind my back.

"No!"

I'm shoved over and pushed back against the wall. My head smacks against stone, and then my leg comes up, fast, hitting centre of groin. The impact is brutal; connects with a _thwack!_ and I shove him away. He falls back like a discarded doll. I'm not seeing faces, or I am, but they aren't the right ones. I'm seeing Dan. Two of him. One is clutching between his legs and writhing on the asphalt, and the other Dan is yelling at me now and grabbing me and I'm knocked back and pinned against the wall by my collar.

Dan.

Haunting me.

"Please no!"

"Calm the hell down!"

_stop_

_your_

_squirming_

I thrash and kick and fight like a wild animal.

"_Please!_ Please don't."

"Nicholas!" Nicholas. Not Dan. _NotDanNotDanNotDanNotDan._ Aiden struggles to pick himself up from the ground, gritting his teeth and clutching his balls. "Let him go."

I'm trembling.

"What is wrong with you, kid?" Nicholas asks me. I just stare at him, mumbling at him to let me go, to stop, to go away, please please please please. Nicholas looks like he can't tell if he should laugh or apologise. He does neither. He lets me go and I double over and throw up.

Dan messed me up so bad.

Fuck.

Dan messed me up _so_ bad.

"Why is he doing that?" Nicholas is asking. "I didn't do anything!"

Aiden is looking at me. I think he knows what happened to me. He saw my tape. He saw what I told his mom. I throw up again. Spew right across the wall.

"Just give him a minute," I hear.

Eventually I stop and wipe my mouth. Nicholas is talking to me: "Disobey, or talk back, to either of us again, and you _aren't_ gonna enjoy the consequences."

I picture cocking my gun and blowing his brains out.

"Got it?"

"Fuck you," I wheeze, only all he hears is, "There are walkers on the other side of the fence. Don't climb over." And he turns to look and they're already shambling over from all the noise I made. When Nicholas and Aiden look back to me, I'm walking away.

"Kid!"

"I'm fifteen, Aiden."

**_Also, I'm not sorry about your balls._**

They let me go.

It's Glenn and Noah I find first.

"That was good aim back there," Glenn says while I march up behind them.

"Target practice helped," Noah replies. "Actually, last week I was pretty close to practising on Aiden."

"Yeah. Me, too, man."

"Oh – h-hey." I'm unzipping Noah's backpack so he startles and swings around out of my hands. I give him a look, my hands still up, and then I shuffle around him and grab out what I was looking for. A water bottle. My mouth feels like Joker and Harley Quinn's vat of acid. I swig, spit, then chug and chug and chug.

"Whoa, man," Glenn is saying, "what's up with you?" I shrug and put the half empty bottle back in Noah's backpack. I use my inhaler. Glenn takes my shoulder. I shrug him off. I don't want anyone touching me. Glenn looks at me closely. His eyes are brown and I trust them so it's feels okay. "Hey," he whispers, "you doin' alright?"

My eyes are watering.

"Checked the middle," I say. "Walkers."

Glenn sighs. "Where are the guys?"

_Rotting, hopefully. _I say, "Coming."

We walk a little more and I show them the walkers through the fence.

"Well, we're not gettin' out the front," Glenn says.

* * *

My knuckle is bleeding and Tara is pissed about it. I don't tell her it was because of the scruff with Aiden and Nicholas, but it doesn't stop her from death-glaring them from across the courtyard until I smack her elbow to get her to stop. With all of us together now, we go and look in through the back door.

The warehouse is big, and there are long and tall aisles set up every ten feet, so there could be some walkers inside hiding. Glenn bangs on the wall to listen for a response, but Aiden decides to go in anyway, since it sounds quiet. We're being safe, though, walking the aisles slowly and quietly.

In the dark, we need flash-lights.

"Tara? Oliver?"

"Yeah."

"You got it?"

"Got this aisle."

My gun is in my right hand and my light is in my left, and both are aimed wherever my eyes go. I don't like big dark warehouses. Sure, I don't have much experience with them, but still, don't like them. Too many places to lurk and hide and get ambushed. It's okay. Being on edge keeps you focussed. Keeps you alive.

"Sh," Glenn hushes suddenly. There's groaning coming from somewhere. Further inside. We group up against a row of boxes. "They're stuck behind something."

"How do you know?" Aiden whispers.

"I don't," Glenn answers. "But they aren't here."

He sighs and it reminds me to keep breathing.

"Alright. Hey, let's go. Eyes up."

We round a corner. My light shifts across to a metal mesh fence, and a pair of rotten eyes on the other side. Nicholas grunts in shock. I look at them. Glenn, Tara, Noah, too. Eugene's face is twisted up. Aiden is just staring and swallowing. It's a whole cluster of them. The fence jangles loudly, but it'll hold – I'd know.

"Clear," Glenn sighs.

"Clean," Noah, too.

"You know your stuff," Aiden says. He doesn't look away from them.

"We were out there a long time," Tara says.

"There could be more," Glenn tells us. "Let's get to work."

I shine my flash-light up along a tall aisle and mumble, "Needle in a haystack," under my breath.

"Nah," Noah grins, "piece of cake."

Tara's light falls on Eugene. . .

"You're up."

* * *

Target set: MICRO INVERTER.

STRING INVERTER – **_Nope._**  
ENECSYS SINGLE MICRO INVERTER – **_Close._**  
POWER OPTIMIZER – **_Sounds like an energy drink._**  
PPT INVERTER – **_No._**  
CENTRAL SOLAR INVERTER – **_Nope._**

"This one," I hear at some point. "Here."

He and Tara are on the aisle next over. I'm in this one on my own, and Noah and Glenn are in the next, then Aiden and Nicholas in the one after that. I rush to the shelf closest to Eugene's voice, shine my light through, and they're in front of me on the other side. A big box labelled _MICRO INVERTER _between us. With her knife, Tara saws into the box. Stuffing pours out over her. A few pieces fling at me. They look like stale marshmallows. I swat them away, grinning. Then there is a micro inverter in her hand and she hands it to Eugene. I stare at the back of the box like it's a giant can of pudding.

"Yeah," I hear Eugene confirm.

"We found 'em," Tara says.

"Guys," I whisper, beckoning Glenn and Noah over.

"Alright, Eugene," Glenn praises. Tara starts to stock them in her and Eugene's packs. She hands me some, too, which I stuff in Noah's backpack. "Oliver, go get the guys. Need Aiden's supply bag."

I go and find them. Ahead, at the far end of the warehouse, is a door. I watch it swing closed, and on the floor, I see a wobbly shadow shamble down Aiden and Nicholas' aisle. Walker.

"Oh, _shit..._"

I take out my knife, soften my steps. Aiden and Nicholas' flash-lights bob as they look around, and when I turn the aisle to see them, I find the walker the shadow belongs to. Still a few hundred yards behind them. They haven't noticed it. I aim my torch behind me and creep after it. It's got armour on: a helmet and bullet proof vest. Army. I grab the base of its helmet and push, and then, in one move, I sink my knife through brain stem and cervical vertebra. It falls to the floor, and when I look up, wiping off my blade, Aiden and Nicholas are aiming at me.

"_Porca puttana!_" I gasp. "Holy shit, don't fucking shoot me!" My flash-light clatters to the floor and I scramble for it. I shine it at them like a police light. They both lower their weapons.

"Jesus hell."

"Dammit, kid!" Nicholas hisses. "What the hell is the matter with you?!"

I sigh.

"_Si sta rompendo i coglioni._"

Nicholas looks furious. I don't use Italian half as much as when I'm around him. That's why I do it. I know it pisses him off. Satisfied by the steam spewing out of his ears, I crouch and root through the walker's clothes. Soldiers usually have something interesting on them. Once, with Pat on the road, I found a letter on one soldier's body. It read:

_To my love. . .  
See you in hell._

Patrick said he found a new hero.

"Whoa..." I say when I find this soldier's _'something interesting'_. "Cool."

"What?" Aiden asks.

"Hand grenade." I stare at the small explosive attached to its torso and the first thought that pops into my head is, _I want to keep it, _and then the second more rational voice says, **_No, definitely not. Your hands are not good hands._** I then looking up to the guys, thinking: _They aren't exactly going to be better hands than mine._

"Lucky nobody shot at it," I say. "Could've blown this whole place up."

Nicholas narrows his eyes at me, "We would've _seen_ it."

I don't say anything. Not saying anything pisses him off more than the Italian. If he hates so many aspects of my identity, then I wonder what would happen if I started wearing a kippah. I tell them, "I came to say we found the micro-inverters. Need your bags."

Nicholas marches past. Aiden follows him, only he stops beside me. . .

"Thanks."

I shrug.

"I mean it, Oliver."

I don't think I've ever heard him call me by my own name before. I blink at him a few times, nod, and after a second, I point to his pants. "Uh, I'm sorry I kicked you in the nuts."

* * *

We've got all the inverters we can carry, and we can always come back, so we take our leave and head for the back door.

"The beginning?" I ask Noah. He looks up to me, the edge of a sandwich bag held in his teeth while he adjusts his rifle. The bag has some of Carol's cookies inside.

"Huh?"

"Your notebook." I take a cookie, bite. "It says: _'This is the beginning..._' The beginning of what?"

"You snooped?"

"Said I would."

"When?"

"In the Eagle Truck. You just didn't hear me."

"You know something? You're a sneaky asshole."

I laugh. Noah tosses Glenn the bag through a shelf. He salutes him.

"So," I say, "what does it mean?"

Noah turns to me.

"Well, Oliver De Luca," he says dramatically, slinging an arm over my shoulder like some patronising big brother. He takes a bite of his cookie and makes a grand gesture around us. "_This..._"

"This?"

"Yes. This," Noah repeats. "_This_ is the beginning, of _everything._"

I give him a look. "Are you high?"

"No."

"Because I know what high looks like."

"Yes, I'm high. High on life. Now, how do _you _know what high looks like?"

"My brother."

Noah smiles, then noogies me _Patrickly_. I shove him off and giggle, "You're such an optimist, man."

"Nah, you're jus' not enough of one."

"No," I say. "I'm a realist."

"You pronounced _neurotic_ wrong."

I try to scoff and laugh that off, but I wince.

"Don't worry," Noah says, "we love you anyway."

"True that!" Tara says. Glenn grins down at his shoes.

I laugh and blush, and then, under my breath, mumble, "Love you, too," which is something I've never told them before.

I'm thinking about in books or movies, when things like this happen, when the characters share a moment of total understanding and happiness together. They come to a conclusion and then they go home and the ending is satisfying and fair and happy ever after. Everything is okay. I'm thinking that this is one of those moments. I'm happy and understood and comfortable and looking forward to re-watching Lord of the Rings again with Carl just because we can. And the moment ends. Except it isn't a short thank you note from the author at the back of the book, or rolling credits and a cheesy background song.

I'm not sure I like being a realist.

Reality is crushing.

Nobody noticed the stray walker that'd wondered in behind us, maybe from the same place that armoured walker came in. I didn't block the door. I didn't block the door. Shuffling feet. Noah and I are still grinning while we turn around and look. But it's too late. It reaches through the shelf and grabs Nicholas's shirt. Aiden takes it out from behind, quickly, but the walker isn't the only thing that falls.

We can't do anything.

The aisle tips. Further and further. I just watch. I just... _watch_.

"GUYS, LOOK OUT!"  
"Oh no."  
"WHOA – WHOA – WHOA!"  
"GET BACK!"

. . .

"Oh."

It's stopped against the next aisle. We all stare. And then I bust out laughing. Noah starts next, then Tara, and I laugh harder because her laugh is my favourite thing in the world.

"Jesus," Glenn says nervously. "That could have gone bad."

"You're one lucky son of a bitch," Noah tells Nicholas.

"Guys."

"I'm sorry," Aiden says, "I couldn't stop it coming down. It was right in front of me."

"Guys..."

"All I could do was watch."

"It's okay," Tara tells him. "It stopped. The aisles must be pretty tough—"

"Guys!" I yell again, stepping across the aisle to the next. I point up. "The box. Top shelf."

It's slipping. Slipping off the self.

"Easy," Glenn is telling it. "Easy..."

I look at where it'll land. The walker. The walker with the armour. And then the box is falling. Landing. _Crack. _At the impact, the small grenade pops away from its strap and rolls across the floor. I'm closest, so I see it. No. I don't see it.

"The pin."

"The what?"

I look up at Tara, who'd asked. _Run! Run! _The screams are in my chest but I don't know if I have any time to get them out. _Run!_

There's a flash of white, and the _boom _comes a million years later. I think everything isn't real. Everything. Just a nightmare I made up in my head. Except the world is shaking. Ending. Something hard hits me, or swallows me. _Heavy_. A crunch. Me? Noah disappears. The floor is twisting under my face and feet. The whole world sounds like an earthquake. All around me. I think of that movie. Order of the Phoenix. Harry and his friends inside the Ministry of Magic escaping the Death Eaters. Row after row of prophets collapsing and falling falling falling down around them. I'm a realist. I'm a realist. Real life is crushing. _Real. Life. Is. Crushing._.. me. No charms. No incantations. The agony is a train at full speed smearing me across the country. And it still occurs to me as odd that the first thought before I die is wondering what it's like to be blown up. Does it last this long? Will I stop feeling it soon? Will it stop hurting? When will the world stop thrashing in and out of itself around me? I'm thinking of Carl, and Carol, and Penelope. I'm so guilty. I'm so sorry. I'm so angry. Someone is yelling. The crashing and banging and falling has stopped but the world is still made of dust and blood and my body is still mangled up like road kill.

I don't think I'm me anymore.

I think I'm just a pair of lungs.

I try to move, and I start crying when I _can_. Not blown up. God. I'm not blown up. I wiggle my toes and fingers and cry so hard I run out of air. Grunting. Coughing. Not me.

"Oh God," Nicholas. "Oh God."

I must black out for a few seconds. I think I've blacked out several times in the last few minutes. I think I've been here for days. No. No. Nicholas. _Nicholas. _My lungs fill with dust and my breath leaves me wheezy and rough and impossible. I think I black out again because the next thing I hear is, "OLIVER, WHERE ARE YOU!?"

"We gotta find him!"

"What if there's nothing left to find?"

"Shut up!" Noah yells. "No, he jumped out of the way."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, he grabbed me. Shoved me away from the explosion."

"He was stood right next to it."

"Moves fast, I guess."

"OLIVER! _OLIVER!_"

Gone. I'm not now. I'm just. Something is digging into my back. Dig. Dig. Dig. I cry out when it jerks to the side. _DigdigDIGDIG!_

"Oliver!" They're still yelling. "Tara! Eugene!"

"Aiden..."

"Guys!"

"Help him!"

"He's trapped."

"Help me get him out!" Aiden says.

I realise they're talking about me. Something is creaking. I can't breathe. The thing on my back is moving and I scream and my whole life is pain. It lasts forever. It lasts forever. Until it's gone, suddenly.

. . . .

I'm laid on my back. That's all I know next. Someone is touching my face. Crushing my chest. I can taste blood in my mouth. Someone's mouth is on my mouth. Someone's air is in my lungs.

I splutter.

"Oliver!"

"Stay in the room. Stay with me. You got this."

Glenn stops performing CRP. CRP. That's for when people stop breathing. Stop beating. Did I die? What the fuck.

"Today's a real _rompicoglioni,_ huh?" I croak out.

Someone laughs. Someone else calls me a son of a bitch. I look up. Aiden stands over me, grinning. Nicholas is pacing with his head in his hands.

"Can you move?"

I look at Glenn and smile. I love his eyes. Jesus, Glenn kissed me. No. He CPR'd me. Same thing? I giggle, then cough... _violently_. I'm falling out of me again.

"Oliver, no, no, stay awake."

My left side stings. I'm bleeding. My shirt is wet. I think I'm crying.

"Please don't tell Carl about this. I don't want him to know I died."

"Oliver, focus," I'm told. "Try to move."

Oh no. I've read stories about this. People who get paralysed in car crashes or grenade explosions. I'll need help to poop. I don't want help to poop.

"You didn't die," Noah is saying. "You just forgot to breathe for a while."

"Alright, good, you're moving your feet."

I look at them, my feet, and laugh, except I'm coughing. I try to stand up. I do. I'm wobbly. But I do manage.

"Anything broken?"

"Don't think so," I say, gripping Noah's shoulder. Glenn's arm, too. I wince. "Where's Tara? And E-Eugene?"

"Eugene's looking for her," Glenn says, walking ahead and pointing into a dust cloud behind us. I see shuffling shapes. "Come on. Cage is open. They're getting out. We need to find—"

"HERE!"

We go. I hold on to Noah for a while until I trust myself not to collapse. Apparently a symptom of maybe sort of dying for a few minutes after almost blowing up is sporadic collapsing. My Glock is heavy in my hand. I grip it tight. Rush, rush, rush. Walkers are behind and growling. The aisles have collapsed in odd positions. Some shelves further away didn't fall at all but instead swivelled around on themselves in sections. And some were so blown to pieces there are shards everywhere.

The aisles around Eugene and Tara are still standing. We're blocked off from here. They're trapped. I see Eugene first, stood trembling, and across from him, Tara. She's out cold. Under a shelf. Bleeding from the crack in her skull.

"Tara!"

* * *

**Notes**

Hope you all enjoyed x tell me what you though?

Preview: You all know what's gonna happen, right? *evil laugh*

**Don't forget to check out the AU :D**

As always,  
Happy reading :_)_


	23. Spend, Part 3: Monsters

**Darth Granola **haha enjoy...

**Marian Angelica **Your support has been absolutely incredible. IloveyouIloveyou! x

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

"Is she breathing?" Glenn asks. "Eugene?"

"I-I can't tell from right here."

"Then fucking go check on her!" I yell.

"They're getting close!" Nicholas warns.

Eugene doesn't move.

"Screw this..." I shove a cardboard box from the shelf, then another. "Aiden, take these."

"Yeah."

"Walker!"

"Eugene, it's yours," Glenn instructs, "take it out."

He's aiming but another one grabs him from behind. I curse, only then the bottom shelf is empty and I fling myself through to Tara's side. The first walker is ahead. I yank it back and sink Lizzie's knife through its eyeball. I feel like I'm not in my own body. I'm watching from somewhere else, sitting at home with a pillow over my eyes waiting for the scary part to be over. Eugene is screaming but I can't see him past the wall of crates between us. But Glenn has cleared a way through, on Eugene's side. I hear a scuffle and then he, Noah and Glenn are stood up and staring at me over the barrier of crates.

"Tara," I grunt, "wake up, please?"

"Whoa, whoa, careful."

"We gotta get her out of here. I'm not strong enough."

Glenn disappears.

"Guys, get to that office!" he orders. "Oliver and I'll get Tara. Go!"

Then he's climbing over the crates. It's a blur. I hear, "Is she breathing?" and "That's a lot of blood," and "Come on, we got this," and "Her shoulder. Get it. Support her head." And then we've drug her through the opening in the shelf I made and carried her across the warehouse into the shipping office. The slam of the door startles me back into my own body again. We lay her on the table that Aiden had pulled out and Eugene examines her. Blood's already spilling onto the floor. I yank off my beanie and let him use it as a bandage.

"How's she doin'?" Glenn asks.

"She has serious head trauma," Eugene says. "She's losing blood fast."

"How do we stop it?" Noah asks.

"Med kit," I mutter. "Aiden."

When I turn to him, he's empty handed.

"Well, where is it?" Noah asks him.

"Your pack, man," Glenn insists.

"Must's dropped it."

"Or it got blown to hell," Nicholas says.

"There's another one in the van," Glenn says.

"She's on her way out," Eugene explains. "We need to get her there."

"Alright, we'll get her there," Glenn assures. I take my inhaler.

"We left the batteries out there," Aiden says.

"Are you crazy?" Nicholas hiss at him. "We'll die."

"Tara," I mutter.

"They're right there, I can see them," Aiden argues.

"Eugene, we got that kinda time?" Noah asks.

"No!" I yell, "you have enough in your pack. Eugene, too!"

Aiden looks furious.

"_Aiden,_ this isn't about your trophies," Glenn tells him angrily. "Tara's priority right now."

Aiden looks like he'll back down, but that is when he rams at the door and flies out of the office. Glenn's almost fast enough to grab him, but walkers are right outside and he slams the door shut again before they get in. We all panic for a second.

"Oh my God."

"Jesus."

"We gotta go. He's gonna get himself killed."

"If we go out there after him he'll get _us_ killed," Nicholas says.

"So you're saying we leave him?" Noah asks.

"Go, get him," Eugene yells. He's shaking, putting pressure on her head with my beanie. The orange and grey and red are already soaked with blood. "She'd do it. I know she would," he says. "I'll stay with her, I'll keep her safe, I assure you. I will."

"Alright," Glenn growls, "we'll knock 'em back." He points at Nicholas. "You still have that flair?"

"Yeah."

"'Kay, you fire the flare over the shelves," Glenn orders, marching to the door. He looks pissed. "It'll draw some o' them over. Alright. We're gonna hit the rest hand-to-hand. You ready?"

We all nod.

"Alright, one, two, three!"

* * *

**Carl's POV**

I don't know how to explain myself without sounding _weird_. A spectacularly idiosyncratic predicament. That's what Penelope would call it.

Thing is, I'm hiding in my en-suite. Naked. _Stark_ naked, except for Oliver's grey beanie on my head. In my hand is a pair of my socks and jeans. On the floor is my underwear, and outside, I left my T-shirt and flannel on the bed. Also, there's the photograph of me and Oliver kissing. It _was_ propped up on the shelf, but now I'm clutching it in my fist and holding my breath.

I skipped school. Ron said he was going to skip, too, to smoke in the new alcove, and he said I should come, but I had it in my head that if my dad likes to kiss Ron's mom then maybe Ron would like to kiss me, and I didn't like that idea even though I knew it was a stupid idea anyway. But still, it freaked me out. And anyway, I had other plans. Lying, I said I'd catch up with him later and instead went to Oliver's. I laid on his bed and read for a while, until Ron came to find me. Ron's weird. He's like his brother; hard to get rid of. I saw him coming through the window and I didn't answer the door. Thing is, Rosita was there.

"Hey, is Carl home? He wasn't next door."

"I think so. Go on up."

So he did. I'd already grabbed Oliver's hat and our photograph and climbed out the window. I was rushing, though, so I think I broke it because I heard a loud grinding noise as I pulled it wider and it jammed for a second, and when I got it up, it wouldn't stay. I couldn't stick around to fix it.

I lost Ron, and nobody was here. The first house was empty. Everyone was at work. I went up to my room, flung off my clothes, set up the photo and held Oliver's hat to my nose because it smelt like him, which isn't even any particular smell, really. It's just –I don't know– _him_, which is kind of nice because he's out there doing God knows what in every kind of trouble and probably none at all but I can't help but worry anyway, so smelling his things and thinking of him is just... nice... and yeah, I know... _weird._

_Really _weird.

Jesus.

Anyway, I was looking at the photo and I was doing that _thing _I do when it's quiet and I'm alone and worried and I want to do something to distract myself, and it was really really good for a while. _Really _good. And then, just as it was all over. . . Carol came home.

I should have just said, "Hey, Carol!" out the door, then dressed myself and acted like nothing had happened, but I panicked and I wasn't thinking straight so when she yelled if anybody was home, I stayed silent and wound up in the spectacularly idiosyncratic predicament I've found myself in now.

I'm hiding and listening while Carol opens all my bedroom windows. I shut my eyes and whisper, "Don't come in here, don't come in here, don't come in here," and she doesn't. She leaves again, and I hear her go downstairs.

I breathe again and step out of the en-suite. My face is red and I'm all sweaty and gross. My shirts are gone, she must've put them in laundry, so I have to get new ones. Quietly, I put on the rest of my clothes, too, and fold up the photo and stuff it in my pocket.

I lay across my bed. In all seriousness, I've had a pretty good time. Impractical, yes. But also very successful.

"What are you doing in here?"

I almost leapt across the room, and then I realise Carol isn't talking to me. She's not even in the room. I think she's under the stairs.

"I didn't tell anybody about the guns. I swear to God."

Sam?

What is Sam doing here?

Was he here the whole time?!

"Answer my question," Carol reprimands. I hear the pantry door shut.

"Do you have any more cookies? The ones you made for the party? Oliver said you'd make more for me."

"They're gone," Carol grumbles. "Now go."

"I-I know he's on a run and all, but I thought you and I could make some?"

"Go home."

He grunts and they go through the kitchen. I sneak out onto the landing.

"My house doesn't have power!" Sam whines. "And I was going to paint my owl statue but somebody broke it."

"None of these are problems, Sam. I don't care about your house. I don't care about your statue. Now get out."

"Can you make more cookies?"

"_No._"

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want to."

"Maybe if you showed me how to make 'em, I could do it myself."

While this conversation takes place, I realise I can't make it out of any windows. Plus, after breaking Oliver's earlier, I don't trust myself. I sort of give up. If Carol is going to find me then at least I have all my clothes on. I can just say I was in the bathroom and I didn't hear her. I'll wait for Sam to go before I announce myself.

In the meantime, I go to my Dad's dresser and root through it. I've never done this before. I've never really considered my dad as anybody with a lot of secrets, or at least none he keeps from me. But recent events have shifted my faith so I figure I have a right to be curious. I don't even know what I'm looking for. All I find are socks and underwear in one drawer, then old junk in another. Most of it probably isn't even his. He doesn't use curlers or hair ties. He doesn't write letters. I find a few pacifiers, for Judith, and some pens and toiletries, and then I find a few unopened condom packets.

I look at them for a second. They can't be his. Who's Dad having sex with? Not Jessie. _Not Jessie. _Not Tara, obviously, or Sasha, I don't think. Not Carol. Michonne? I don't know. Maybe there are a lot of things I don't know. Maybe I don't know my dad at all. Maybe there are things he'll never tell me, or explain to me, like how he can tear a man's throat out but he can't let me eat dog food when I'm starving, or why he can kiss someone else's wife but will fight his own best friend for sleeping with my mom.

I'm getting mad again.

"You want cookies?" Carol is asking Sam downstairs, interrupting my thoughts. The next thing she says makes my eyes widen: "Alright. You're gonna have to steal the chocolate from Olivia. And then you're gonna get some extra bars for me and Oliver. If you get caught or you say anything, you're not gonna like what happens to you, now go."

I see through the window as Sam crosses the street and heads towards the pantry, and then I turn around and Carol is standing in the doorway.

The condoms are still in my hand. Uselessly, I stuff them back inside Dad's drawer again. She narrows her eyes at me. . .

"You're stealing condoms."

"_You're_ stealing chocolate."

Our staring contest is brutal.

"Don't tell Oliver."

"Don't tell Dad."

"Fine."

"Fine."

We look at each other. Carol crosses her arms. "Want some lunch?"

After a second, I nod.

"Okay. Come downstairs."

"Okay."

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

Aiden is knelt under an aisle, reaching across for his pack.

"Come on, come on..."

"_Aiden!_"

"Almost got it!"

"_Shh!_"

"The flare," Noah hisses, "it's burning out!"

"Hurry, man," I'm going to say. But I hear the creaking. I see the metal beam directly above Aiden's head, and it's slipping, bending to the weight of its surroundings. "Wait," I mutter, "wait. No. Aiden!"

He looks back at me, and then he looks up. I hear him curse. It happens too fast. The heavy metal collapses. I think I shut my eyes because I don't see it happen. But I hear it. I hear the crunch. The clang. The screaming. My ears rattle. My brain rings. I cover my face like a child and shudder. When I peek through my fingers, Aiden's whole right arm is crushed. I see bone sticking out in two places from his elbow and wrist. His hand is flat and twisted and bent at the wrong angle.

"Oh, God."

Things start to blur again. The next thing I'm fully aware of is the immense weight under my hands while I help Nicholas and Glenn try to lift the aisle. It won't budge. Aiden is still screaming.

"Guys!" Noah urges, shooting into the walkers. "I'm almost out!"

Glenn's nodding so I break away and shoot, too. I run out of ammo quickly and reload. Walkers are spawning at random like the trolls in Ron's videogames. Some of them freak me out and I have to let someone else play. Strange that, how I can take a walker out under my boot but I'm scared of some pixelated trolls.

"Come on,_ again._"

"We're not gonna make this."

"Hey," Glenn hisses. I look and see him grab Nicholas's shoulder. "Yes, we will. But I need your help. You can do this."

"Don't leave me."

"Okay, okay."

Seventeen bullets left. Sixteen. Fifteen. Aiden is screaming. Fourteen, thirteen, twelve, eleven, ten. Nine. Eight. Noah runs out of bullets. He shoves the empty pistol into his holster and switches to his rifle. The shots from it shake through the whole warehouse, their sheer power collapsing more aisles. Seven, six. Five. Four.

"You left them." Nicholas' muttering into Aiden's ear. "We both did. That's who we are. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

I don't know what's happening. Nicholas is running. Glenn is staring. Me, too. Lost.

"They're coming!" Noah growls.

Three bullets left.

Aiden is talking but it's hard to hear him: "It was us. The others, before. They didn't panic. We did. It was us."

Two bullets. One.

Glenn tries again to pull, but Aiden stops him. "No."

My Glock is empty. I curse. The walkers are right on top of us. In one moment, I holster my gun, yell, "GLENN, PULL!" and then the aisle is under my palms and I'm pulling with everything I have. Noah, too, and Glenn. We pull and pull. Pull so hard my body splits in two. And then Aiden is free.

"THEY'RE HERE!"

There's a hard yank on my collar and I stop breathing. I see Glenn and Aiden running, and the walkers following us like a flood, but Noah pulls me back and drags me across the warehouse, and we all run for our lives.

* * *

**Carl's POV**

"Hey, Rick," Pete says. "Just havin' a beer. Thought I'd bring you one, for helping my wife today." I'm not sure what it is between today and me spending so much of it listening in on conversations I have no part in.

"Uh, I'm good," Dad says, "but, thanks."

"Ah, c'mon. Don't tell me you're still on duty."

"Kinda always am, you know?"

"Well, not at Deanna's party. I saw you. You had some, right?"

I ate what Carol made me, and when Dad showed up, Carol went about cleaning the kitchen and I dug my nose in a comic book in my room. But now I'm here, sitting with my sister at the top of the stairs. Carol is doing laundry. She's still waiting for Sam to come back.

Dad and Pete are at the door. Dad hasn't answered him. "I wish I coulda helped out more, today," he says instead. "I asked around, but nobody saw or heard anything."

"Well, it was just an owl," Pete says. "Grand scheme of things, I think we'll live."

"Yeah..."

"I'm sorry," Pete says. "Heard _you_ lost your wife."

The quiet stings.

"You know, I'm sure it looks like we haven't lost much," Pete hiccups, "but we have. Other things, we're just fightin' like hell to hold on to. With everything you people've been through, I don't know if you see that."

"We do."

I hear Pete drink, then, loud, he says, "Bring your kids in for a check-up! I know I offered you one but they really should come in. They were out there a while, right?"

"Yeah—"

"And your boy, uh, which one's your son again?"

"Carl."

"Right, the uh, with the under-bite."

At first I think this is funny, but Dad doesn't sound amused. "His name is Oliver."

"Oliver. Right. You're son?"

"No... Carl's my son. Oliver's..." _an orphan_, he's going to say, but instead says, "Carol's boy, adopted." He doesn't miss a heartbeat when he adds, "Carl's boyfriend."

"I'm sorry." I don't think Pete is.

"Why?"

"Bring them in," Pete doesn't answer. "Never know what they coulda picked up. Boys can be stupid. Especially boys like them."

"_Excuse_ me?"

Pete doesn't answer. "Oliver," he says, "he's got asthma right?"

"Yes. He does."

"Heard he's been having some trouble lately, breathing-wise. Ron told me. I might have something to help. We're comin' into Summer soon and the pollen's gonna get pretty bad. Can't let it get out of control."

"I'm grateful." I don't think Dad is, either.

"Let's be friends, man," Pete says, "we kinda have to be, right?"

"Yeah," Dad says, "we do."

"So we will. I'll see you, Rick."

Dad grunts when Pete slaps his shoulder. The door shuts behind him. A few seconds later, Dad's still at the door, thumbing around his wedding ring. I know this because I'm at the bottom of the staircase now, watching him. When Dad notices me, he looks like he's in pain. He lets go of his ring.

"Carl."

"Yeah."

"Are you being safe?"

He asks it out of nowhere.

"What?"

"You. You and Oliver."

I glare at him.

"Just answer me," my dad says. "Doesn't have to be more painful than it needs to be."

I don't say anything.

"Carl," he repeats, "are you and Oliver being safe?"

"Are you?" I ask back.

Dad blinks at me, and then he gets angry. "What are you getting at?"

"We didn't _pick_ anything up out there," I hiss at him. "We're not being stupid. So just drop it, Dad."

"Who do you think you are?"

I scowl at him. I want to yell, "Who do you think _you_ are, Dad? Who even _are_ you?!" but I swallow it back, sigh, and say, "We're being safe."

Dad sighs, and then Carol is here. She gives us a confused look while she shuts the door. Without saying anything, Dad goes into the kitchen and takes the last of the food she left, then leaves the house. Carol looks at me, and is about to ask what happened, but there's a knock on the door and then Sam is standing on the porch holding up a bag of chocolate. His grin is shameless. She snatches the chocolate and pulls him inside. Carol looks at me one last time, but I don't explain anything. I turn on my heel and go upstairs. I put Judith back into her cot. And then I march into Dad's room and steal all his condoms.

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

We're stuck in a revolving door.

Noah and Glenn in one section, and Nicholas, Aiden and me in the section opposite. We're cut off from either way out, and walkers are blocking us off at every side. In the lobby. In the parking lot. The five of us work desperately to hold the door still.

"Maybe we can shoot our way past them!" Nicholas yells. He'd dropped his rifle outside. Aiden, too. "You guys still have guns!"

"You have the ammo!" Glenn shouts. "Oliver?"

While he and Aiden keep the door still, I grab Nicholas' pack and root every pocket. I'm sweating. My stomach drops. "No," I mutter. I pick up the bullets and look at my Glock. There rifle shells. Not ammo for pistols. I look up to the guys. They don't have rifles. "They're the wrong rounds! I can't get them through to you!"

Aiden collapses and I have to help pick him up. He's bleeding bad. His whole arm is swollen and mangled.

"We gotta do somethin', man!" Nicholas begs. "We're gonna die in here!"

"There has to be another way," Noah is saying. "There has to be a way."

"Tara and Eugene," I grunt, arms flat and trembling against the glass. "They're still inside!" The walkers are deafening.

"Are you crazy, kid!" Nicholas screams.

"NO ONE GETS LEFT BEHIND!"

"Look around!"

"Shut the fuck up!" Aiden shouts, clutching his arm. "This is on _you_, Nicholas!"

"Hey-hey-hey! _Stop!_" Glenn screams. "Fighting's _not _gonna help!"

Aiden pins himself against the glass in relent. For a moment, no one says anything. My whole body burns in exhaustion.

_BEEP-BEEP!  
BEEP!  
BEEP-BEEP!_

"Hey!" It's Eugene, outside in the parking lot. He's driving the eagle truck, an arm outside of it banging on the side. The electronic dub-step is loud and terrible and effective. "Hey! Over here, come get me! Come get me!"

_BEEP!_

_'And now you're going to die.'_

_BEEP!_

"Come on!" Eugene yells. The walkers follow. "Come on! Come and get me!"

_'And now you're going to die.'_

I think I'm in love with Eugene Porter.

"Ha! Come on, Eugene! Yeah." Glenn, too, by the sounds of it. I laugh. I also throw up in my mouth. "Alright," Glen pants. "Hey, I need you all to – _hey_, Nicholas! I need you four to keep the door steady, alright? I'm gonna break the glass! We get out. You three push out. We get the rifle and we're good! Right? Right?!"

I nod, breathless and shaking. I trust him. I trust him. Aiden and Nicholas are nodding, too.

"Ready?!"

"Yeah!"

"Go!"

Glenn bashes the butt of his rifle against his glass. Again. _Again._ The door jolts. My feet slip. Aiden hits the floor again. Nicholas starts screaming.

"No! No, stop, it's not safe!"

"Nicholas," I shout, "come on. Push!"

"This is the only way!" Glenn shouts.

"No!" Nicholas cries. "It's not gonna break!"

"It will," Noah insists. "We can hold it. We can!"

I push my forehead into the glass, groaning.

"Trust me, okay?" Glenn is saying. "Count of three–count of three."

I'm nodding.

"One! Two! Thr—"

One second. One second that I and everyone else misses. The revolving door is open and people are screaming and then Nicholas is outside. . . and it's over.

"NOAH!"

The scream comes from me. I shove the door shut and before he's dragged out the rotten arm holding onto him snaps off with a tear. Noah falls back against Glenn. The door is open. And then something grabs me. My hair is yanked. Growls lick up my neck. But Aiden is fast. He grabs my middle and pulls me back, and I think we're safe, but I'm wrong. He jolts backwards away from me. He's staring.

I've always believed that the last thing you see before you die is your whole life flashing before your eyes. But I didn't know that if you're looking into someone else's eyes while it happens, they see it, too. Because I do. I see Aiden's whole life. I see him losing his first tooth and riding his first bike. I see Deanna making him and Spenser breakfast and Reg yelling at him after he broke a vase. I see Aiden and Spencer fighting over videogames. I see him driving down a dirt track listening to loud music with his friends, and working in the ROTC and almost getting that lieutenant's commission. I see his evacuation with his family, and setting up home in Alexandria. . .

"Don't let go of me."

. . .and then I see him die.

He falls from my grip, slips between my fingers, tearing marks all the way down my arms. I can't do anything. He's dragged out of the revolving door and eaten right in front of me.

"AIDEN!"

I try to go after him but the door snaps shut. I scream and scream and scream. Glenn and Noah are shouting. Aiden tries to fend them off, but the walkers have already torn into him. His death is slow and stretched. Aiden is shoved against the glass. I fall backwards. Bites come down on his shoulder and throat and chest and face and arms and hands and — and he screams. Screams and screams and screams. Until he can't scream anymore because he drowns in his own blood. _Blood_. It pours under the bristles at the bottom of the door, soaking my clothes.

I don't work anymore. When the revolving door starts moving, I don't do anything. Someone is shouting at me. I'm being pushed, served up like a meal.

"OLIVER!"

"OLIVER, GET UP!"

I remember in school, learning about the fight or flight instinct. We weren't taught about the third instinct. The instinct for when there's no way out. Can't run. Can't fight.

I freeze.

"OLIVER! C'mon, man!"

"_OLIVER!_"

Glenn sounds so angry I startle and look at him.

"Oliver, you gotta listen to me! We're gonna get out of this! But we gotta do it fast – while they're distracted."

I keep nodding, forcing function to my legs. I pull myself to my feet. I'm dripping with blood.

"Okay, _good!_"

"You can do this, man!"

"We're not losing you, too!"

"I can't breathe," I try to say.

"We'll push this way, let you get out first!" Glenn says.

"Your side's already open."

"Shit. Alright." I don't look at him but I can hear him crying. "W-when we get out we're gonna help you, Oliver. W-we're gonna get you out of there! Alright?"

My airways are closing. I have no more energy to pretend I'm okay. I know it has to go this way. Glenn and Noah are stronger. They'll do better to get out first.

"Oliver, you got this!" Noah shouts. "Oliver! You'll be okay!"

"Alright, count to three!" Glenn's voice is shaking. "One. Two. THREE!"

The door pushes a lot easier than before with the thirty less bodies shoved against it this side. Parts of Aiden are being thrown around like fodder. Glenn and Noah's escape. I try to catch my breath. The gap in my side of the door is huge. I could just step through, give myself over. Would that make it easier?

"OLIVER!"

My eyes shut. I stand there like a statue inside the revolving door. I'm suffocating.

"Oliver, you gotta push now!"

"NOW! OLIVER!"

I stumble to the other side of the door. Glenn and Noah help from the outside. A walker pushes in behind me at the last moment before the door shuts, and another one had tried to follow it, but was cut off from the waist down.

"Oliver! Take 'em out!" Glenn shouts. "Almost got it!"

I'm crying. My arms burn. I've got my knife in my hand. When the walker lunges, I knock it's arms away. Hair swings around her face. Mine, too. She comes after me and I choke. The floor hits me hard and wet. I grunt and drop my knife. My left hand is fast enough to come up against her throat and I reach with my right hand for my knife.

"OLIVER—NO!"

Something had slipped out of my mind. Only for a moment. One second. But that is all it takes. The other walker. The one torn in two. It's right next to me. It's right here. I watch it happen. I _watch _it happen. It grabs my arm. . .

_no_

. . .and sinks its teeth into my right hand.

* * *

**"Bite" by Troye Sivan**

* * *

_Today, I am afraid._

_Really, really afraid._

_My gun has been fired empty. My muscles have been worn to exhaustion. I've seen someone die, his first bite before the hundred that followed, and I can hear their mocking snarls in my ears, their snapping jaws, the sour rotten breath on my neck. My shoulders bunch, my eyes scrunch, my breath shortens, and every muscle in my body tenses up. It's funny, fear, how it can make you do all of that. Fear can make you faster, smarter, stronger. But it can also make you stupid, weak, confused. To everyone it's different. Always._

_Fear is like a monster._

_But when it comes down to it, it's always going to be on you. Whether they're in your head or right in front of you, you'll either have to fight the monsters, or become them. . ._

_I guess this here is my monster, huh?_

_Shit._

* * *

There's pain. Throes of it. _Painpainpainpain._ It's all I can think about. I don't know what the rest of me is doing until the walker on top of me is dead. Her neck snaps inside my fist and her blood spills down my arm. I can feel it. Spine crushing in my hand. And then its head rocks to the side and I shove it off of me.

I'm aware of what is happening to my right hand. The way fingers are crushed between molar: _crunch-crunch-crunch!_ The dissection of incisor piercing palm: _chut-kshluck-sqwelp!_ And then Lizzie's knife is lodged through its eyeball.

I yank my hand away and scream. My teeth clench. I roll over onto my front. _Scream._ My fingers don't move. Or they do but not in the way they should. Hurts. _Hurts!_ I want to look at the damage, only I am dragged out of the revolving door before I can. I panic. It's more walkers. More teeth. More pain. But it's Glenn.

I'm grunting. I'm moaning. I'm dying.

Glenn takes my hand. Bit. Bit. _Bit. _He's crying and whispering: "No... no, no, no, no, no, no."

"Not again." Noah whines.

"Oliver."

"Oh, God!"

"Noah, get his machete."

"Wh—"

"NOW! IT HAS TO BE NOW!"

Something pulls, and something else is tied tightly above my elbow. Glenn's belt. I'm shaking my head. I'm screaming.

"Do it!  
One clean cut!  
_Now!_"

I look at Noah. His arms are raised. My machete is in his hands. Before I can think I see the swing and hear the noise of steel slicing flesh, limb detaching from body. A jolt. Even as I watch it happen, I don't quite believe it. I don't quite understand the concept of it. My hand. _My hand._ A part of me. Always. So why is Glenn holding it? Why does he and it stumble backwards without me? Why does he drop it to the side like an empty can of string beans?

" Shit. "

How I manage to utter it aloud I don't know.

"Nicholas'll find the truck!" Noah is talking but I'm not hearing him. _Why are you all the way over there, hand?_ I'm thinking. _You're mine. Mine. Come on. _"Glenn, go!" Noah again. He sounds far away. "You gotta stop him."

"Oliver."

"I got him. Go!"

I'm slung over Noah's back. _My hand._ That is all I am aware of for a very long time. It's not Aiden's scratches on my arms or the aching in my body or the tightness in my chest. It's my hand. No, it's my lack of hand. It's the fact that where hand should be hand is not. So much blood. It's like being told your hair smells nice when you're bald. No. No, it's not like that. It's like having your hand amputated with your own machete.

Getting hit in the face and shot in the chest was so fast on both occasions that I didn't get a chance to really feel it all. I don't remember my seizure. Cracking my ribs wasn't so focused in one place. Not like this. This pain is nothing I've felt before. I go limp. I stop working. My vision shines red and white. Colours dance. If it's my imagination or reality, the pain blocks out anything trying to reach me. It stuffs it into boxes that I can't distinguish what is or is supposed to be.

I'm inside of the eagle truck. Something's warm, beside me. I'm grunting and writhing and looking to see Tara. She's unconscious and bleeding. So. Much. Blood. I want to take her hand but I don't have one to take it with. I can't breathe. I'm passing out.

"Oliver," Eugene is saying, "his arm..."

_Thwack, thwack!_

"Glenn! Glenn, stop! You'll kill him!"

"Get Nicholas in the back."

"Where's Aiden?"

I have to black out because then the truck is moving under me. I'm gagging. Someone is holding my head, saying my name while I throw up across the back.

"Guys! He's choking! He... He's not breathing!"

Something hard and cold is pushed into my mouth, sprayed. _Inhaler. _Trying to breathe is like drinking through a straw that's being pinched by an invisible hand.

"No, no, no, no!"

"Breathe, man! _Breathe._"

"Noah!"

"Don't go blue! _Don't go blue, man!_"

"We gotta stop their bleeding."

"He won't make it!"

"LET ME DRIVE!"

"We gotta get them to the clinic."

I think I go again. I think I throw up again.

"Come on, Oliver."

"He's dying."

"SHUT UP!"

"WE'RE ALMOST THERE!"

"Hold on, man."

Their voices are falling away. I'm holding onto Noah's shoulder but it slips out of my grip. I'm suffocating. It's absolute and it's awful and it's not going away. It takes too long. It feels too desperate. All I can think about is what a liar I am.

_"Nobody's gonna die, Carl."_

Liar.

* * *

**Notes**

He's fine... sort of... well, uh... not really... like, at all.

I am in love with Troye Sivan's new album WILD, like, omfg, it is_ perfection _in my ear space parts.

RIP Red, grey, orange beanie, chapter 8 to 23.

Also, RIP to Oliver's right hand... chapter _forever _to 23...

Aaaaaaanyway...

LONG LIVE NOAH! I had to save him. I made my decision the moment he told Glenn not to let go.

My personal favourite part was Carl's first scene xD I wrote it as a crappy draft and didn't think I'd actually use it, but it was too funny, and I felt like this chapter needed it xD Tell me what you thought. It'll super help with figuring out and cleaning up the next chapter. Thank you x

As always,  
Happy reading :_)_


	24. Bleed

**BloodGutsandChocolatePudding **hehehe ily so much x

**DarthGanola **Carl's gonna be pissed...

**inazumahunter **Yep, he is right handed... I actually only chopped that one so that he wouldn't lose Mika's bracelet... ^.^ thanks x

**Marian Angelica **I seriously love you. Like, shit, I've loved waking up to your comments! THANK YOU!

**Pas **Ah! Okay, I recommend reading the AU first. Mostly because I like that one better. And aw, thank you so freaking much! TROYE. YES. Oh. My. Fucking. God. It's been, what? Two or three weeks since he released his album... I'm still binge listening to it. It's unhealthy! Six songs and I just am dead. Like, my ears aren't even bored, it's so crazy. Make an account and we can message about music! :D And thank you! Hope to hear again from you in the reviews at least x

* * *

**Regarding the Caliver Community. There was a glitch. I tried to delete it the same day I created it and it wouldn't delete, and now it doesn't count who's following, so... fuck. I only just noticed, so my bad! I'm kinda lost on what to do so it's kind of just..._ there..._ eugh.**

* * *

**Carl's POV**

"Tobin's resigning?"

"Yeah," Penelope answers me. "Just now. Reg told me."

We're sitting up in a tree behind my house. Penelope hasn't said so, but I know she's waiting for Enid. I almost didn't see her, before. I walked right under her once I left the house. Penelope threw her pen at my head.

"What's in your pocket?" she asks me.

I pull out a deck of cards and a handful of condoms. She laughs. I put them away again. "What's in yours?" I don't really expect her to have anything. But she pulls out a packet of cigarettes. "Uh..."

"They're not mine. Jessie's."

"You stole them?"

"Ron stole them," she says. "She doesn't know he knows about them."

"So you took them from him?" I ask.

"Can't take something that's already been stolen," Penelope tells me. I give her a look. She gives me a look, too. "Don't worry, I'll giving them back."

"Won't you get into trouble?"

"I'll slip them into her desk."

"Ron'll be pissed."

"He'll get over it."

"Where's Bean?"

"Around."

I remember what we were talking about. "Who's leading the construction crew now?"

"Your guy. Sargent?"

"Abraham."

"Yeah."

"Makes sense I guess." I look at her. "You okay with that?"

Penelope shrugs. "I'm not the one who makes the decisions around here..." She turns towards the wall. I look, too.

Enid.

We watch her climbs in over the wall, taking her brown towel down with her. She pulls out wooden poles as she descends. When she hits the ground, she brushes herself off and puts her things back into her backpack.

She sees us, sighs, and walks over.

"Hi..."

Penelope doesn't speak. Enid walks closer. She glances at me once, somewhat looking like she'd rather I weren't here for this, but she pushes past that. She gets under Penelope's eye-sight and they look at each other for a few seconds.

"Nell."

She watches her.

"I love you."

Enid says it like she's reminding her, like: _Don't forget to pick up the milk, okay?_

"You, too," Penelope mumbles. She's frowning. Enid looks guilty. She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear and walks away. Penelope puts her head against the tree trunk.

"What's the deal with you two?"

"What?"

I hesitate.

"Well, we've got this theory," I decide to tell her, "me and Oliver."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"What is it?" She's grinning.

"You and Enid are girlfriends," I admit. "And Ron's just covering for you because you aren't out yet."

"Close," Penelope says, "but you forget that I'm asexual."

She's right. I did.

"But I like that," she says. "Sounds romantic."

"Can't asexual people still have girlfriends?"

"Sure."

I cock an eyebrow.

Penelope scoffs.

I sigh. "Then what is your deal?"

"I just don't want her to kill herself."

"You think she'd kill herself?"

"No," she says. "Not intentionally. But, there's a weird line between trying to kill yourself and _not_ trying to stay alive." She shakes her head awkwardly. "It's whatever."

I'm not trying to be nosey. There's just so many questions. "Why're you both so... _into_ each other?"

She looks at me. "Could ask you and Oliver the same thing."

I frown. "No, I mean, like this. Like you're trying not to care. Like you're pretending it doesn't matter to you."

"It does matter," she says. "It's just complicated. Me and her."

I wait.

"You've lost people, right?" Penelope asks. "You've seen people die?"

I barely get time to nod.

"And it hurts, right? So, it makes sense to brace yourself for it. To prepare yourself for when things go to shit. Because it will. That's just how it works. People are gonna come along that you end up caring about, and that sucks, but, it's good, too, at the same time. But it's hard. Because you know it'll end one day. So, you get ready for it – you don't let yourself care and you don't tell them you love them and you don't worry when they sneak out."

I sigh.

"Just survive, somehow," Penelope says. "That's how it works. It's how it's always worked, you know?"

She keeps doing that, asking without waiting for my answer.

"But then they stop doing that," she says. "They start saying they love you, you know? And you start to, too. You start saying you love them, too. And it sucks because it's gonna destroy you, when the people you love die."

"_That's_ destroying you," I tell her. "Thinking like that is what's driving you insane."

"I'm not insane."

"I know."

I stare at her. Her eyes look like they're glowing in the sun.

"I didn't tell him," I say. "About your sister. That it was you, that had to put her down."

"How'd you know I had to."

"I killed my mom."

This seems to be enough for Penelope.

"Was it walkers?"

"No," she says. I don't ask anything else.

"Why didn't you tell him?" she asks me.

"'Cause it isn't my story to tell."

"Not mine either," she tells me. "Not anymore."

I take a deep breath and nod. I would take her hand, but I don't think Penelope likes that much, like Oliver doesn't like getting grabbed unexpectedly. The next best thing I can think of is to cheer her up a little, somehow, so I reach into my pocket and pull out a few condoms.

"Want some?"

She smirks. "Think you're forgetting the whole ace thing again."

"Cards?"

She laughs.

"Oh," I say. "Ace. Asexual. Got it."

Her grin is huge and I feel great for it.

"Said it yourself," I go on, "some of you guys still have girlfriends, right?"

She laughs and snatches a few from me. "Speaking of," she says, "maybe I _should_ take some for her."

I give her a weird look.

"And _Ron._"

I grin, nod, then put the rest back in my pocket.

"Where'd you get them anyw—"

"HELP!"

We both startle.

"I NEED HELP!"

"Is that—"

"Glenn."

I am already climbing down from the tree. I almost fall, but Penelope catches the back of my shirt and manages to steady me. I brace myself against the next branch while she jumps down, grabbing my wrist while I jump down after her.

"Thanks."

"No problem."

The gate is already being shut when we get there. We hear the truck driving behind the brownstone apartments. Enid comes out, points.

"Clinic?" Penelope asks.

Enid nods.

I don't remember running across the community. I don't remember when Penelope took my hand, or when I took hers. The next thing I know is that we're standing outside the clinic and Deanna and Reg are knelt on the ground and screaming. I know all the different kinds of screaming. This is the kind for when someone you love is dead.

The eagle truck is parked on the curb, muddy skid marks in the grass verge. The back wide open and when I look inside, there's so much blood its dripping over the side. The blood trails all the way to the clinic door and steps, smudged and splattered. Dad and Carol rush past me inside the building. Nicholas is standing in the street, covered in dust with bruises all over his face. He looks at the blood on his hands.

Noah is saying Penelope's name and she's staggering into his arms. No, she's trying to get past him, into the clinic, too. "Nell, no!"

"Oliver!" she cries.

"Is he okay?" it comes out of my mouth casually, like he might've just missed with his deodorant can. He does that, sometimes. One time he got it in his eye and I had to spend a whole morning with his head in my lap and an eye-drop serum hovering over his face. . .

_"Stay still."_

_"You're pulling my eyeball out."_

_"How'd you even get so much in there?"_

_"I swear it was aimed at my pit."_

_"Obviously not."_

_"Obviously _shut the hell up._"_

_"Shh. Lie still."_

"You guys have to go," Noah urges. There's blood on his shoulder. "You can't be here."

Penelope's hands are covering her mouth.

"He's..." She shudders. "He's... Blood."

"Don't look!"

"What happened?" I ask.

"C'mon, Nell... Carl."

Again: "What happened?"

"He was bit."

"No."

It's Penelope who says that. I'm still standing here, frozen. I get to the clinic door but Noah is pulling me back. "No, Carl. Wait."

"Let go," I say, "you have to let go of me now."

I'm shaking my head. I'm reaching. I'm shoving.

"I have to talk to him."

"Noah!" It's Carol. I don't see her but she sounds horrified. "Don't let him in! Don't—"

Oh God. I can hear him. . .

"_No-no-no-no-no!_" He's grunting. He's crying. He's wheezing. "_It hurts._"

"Shh, sweetie."

"_Nuh, phhse._"

"Shh. _Breathe,_ Oliver – God, Denise, is it hot enough yet? He's losing too much blood."

"Almost! We've only got the backup emergency generators working on the stove. It's only just starting up."

"Eugene's working on the inverter exchanges." It's Dad. "It should be up soon. You'll have full power."

"Oliver!" I yell. "_Oliver!_"

Dad's in front of me. He's pulling me away. I cling to him and cry. "Carl. Carl, listen to me. _Listen to me!_" I look at his eyes. Blue. Like mine. It's so strange to look into the eyes that I've grown up with and realise I have the same eyes, too. "You can't be here, son."

"Denise, you need to control the bleeding!"

"Alright! Alright. It's done."

"Oliver, you gotta put this in your mouth now."

He's whimpering.

"Here, here."

"_Nuhh!_"

"Shh."

"Hold him."

"Just do it!"

Sizzling.

The screams kill me.

"OLIVER!"

"God dammit!" Pete roars. "GET THEM OUT OF HERE!"

I'm already inside. The smell reminds me of Terminus but it's Grady I think of; what it felt like to run up the staircases to find him. It felt so slow. Not this time. Everything happens fast. Too fast.

Tara is on her side. Pete is stitching up the large gash on her head. On the other side of the clinic, right there, right in front of me, is Oliver. Carol's holding him down, Denise Cloyd, a woman I've only ever seen a few times, is holding a cauterising iron to his right arm. He's unconscious, laid along the hospital bed with a small wooden plank between his teeth. He's coated in dirt and blood like the rest of them. I see the bruises, the scratches, and his right hand. No. I see the place his right hand _should _be. I see the bubbling skin and melting flesh.

"Wait," I say, "wait," and my hands come up over my mouth, my shoulders, "wait," again, "wait, wait, wait."

Something shatters in me. I touch his hand. His left hand. His _only _hand. His other one is getting turned into a human furnace.

"Stop it."

"Carl," Carol begs. "Please, you can't be here."

"He's gonna turn," Penelope says. She claps her hands over her mouth. I don't know what to do. _I don't know what to do._

"No," Noah says, "he isn't."

"Those aren't walker scratches."

"His hand—"

Oliver comes to. Denise is still burning his forearm but she has to stop when he throws himself away from her. I shudder when I see the full amputation. The sever is a few inches away from where his wrist should be. Two thin bones, the radius and the ulna, are hiding in the flesh. Blood swells from the parts that haven't been cauterised yet. Skin bubbles, drips.

"Oliver, please!" Denise looks horrified. Is she even a doctor? "I-I'm trying to help you."

"_Nuhh, phhl!_"

"Shh," Carol coos.

The iron comes down and he screams again.

"Stop," I say, "stop, please, you're hurting him." Nobody hears me. I'm sobbing into my hands. "Oliver!"

He looks at me, and then he goes limp.

"No," I say, "no, no."

"He's unconscious," I hear.

"GET OUT!" Pete shouts again. "We need to concentrate!"

"Pete!" Rosita yells. He looks furious, but he looks at Tara and keeps working.

"Please?" Denise asks me shakily. "We need space to work. Nell. Carl. You need to let us save him." Oliver starts to come to again. This time he doesn't scream right away. He looks up at the ceiling and watches something move across it. I look, too. Nothing's there. His eyes roll to the back of his head and he starts screaming again. He says my name. I try to grab for his hand but I'm yanked back hard.

Outside, I collapse against the wall and throw up into my hands. I look at it. I think I try to apologise, but I throw up again and it all splatters across the deck. Dad is rubbing my spine, telling me to breathe, wiping my face and hands with a cloth. Penelope is staring at me. Bean's here, too. And Enid.

"Who's at home now?" Glenn asks.

"Your sister," Dad says to me. He's breathless. I stand up. "Go look after her."

"N-no, I have to stay."

"She's alone," Dad hisses, "go with the others and clean up. Wait for everything to calm down."

"I-I can't leave him. _Dad._ Dad, I can't leave him."

"Now, Carl."

I'm covering my mouth, shaking my head.

"There's nothing you can do right now. I'll come and get you if... if..."

"Dad..." I keep saying it. "Dad..."

"I'll be here," Dad says, "He'll be alright. I'll stay with him."

"Me, too," Glenn says, "case he needs a transfusion."

I'm nodding.

"I'll come and find you," Dad says. "But right now, you need to look after Judith."

Someone's hand is in mine. I startle. It's Penelope. I stare at her. She pulls.

"Come on, Carl."

* * *

Oliver's in and out of consciousness all night. _It hurts,_ that's what he'll say, or sometimes it's something about Aiden. Early in the morning, he finally manages to sleep peacefully. He sleeps all day. Tara hasn't woken up once. Pete says he got the swelling in her brain to stop. All we can do now is wait for her to wake up. In the meantime, they both have someone there to monitor them at all times.

Oliver isn't showing signs of turning, but his hand was only unbound from the bed late this afternoon. Pete kept telling me not to sit too close, asking if he was getting a fever, if his skin was becoming discoloured. It wasn't. He wasn't coughing blood or losing his memory, so I sat by his side and held his hand. He's okay. Well, no, he's not. He's lost his right hand. But, he will be okay.

I've spent all night and day with Oliver; reading, helping Rosita or Denise or Pete or Carol around the clinic. Eventually Rosita convinces me to go home when it starts to get dark. I lie in my bed and twirl Lizzie's knife in my hand. The handle is wearing. I trace every scratch or nick in the blade with my fingernail. Oliver dropped the knife back at the warehouse but Noah was able to grab it. I'll keep it safe until I can return it.

"I looked him over," Rosita says outside on the porch. Dad and Carol are out there, too.

"Well, he's clean, right?"

"He's clean," she confirms. "He woke up a little ago. I gave him something to eat, and drink. Gave him more meds. You can go see him. Carl, too."

"He only just got to bed," Dad says. "First time he's slept yet."

Screw that, I'm already getting dressed.

"What happened to him?" Carol asks. "Did he tell you?"

"Glenn and Noah told me," Dad says.

"I know," Carol says. "But what did Oliver say?"

Rosita takes a second to answer. "Look, I asked okay? But, Oliver didn't – _couldn't_ tell me. He can't speak."

"_'He can't speak'_?"

"I checked his throat," she says. "There's a lot of strain there. His larynx is inflamed, badly, and he's gonna be pretty sore for a few days, week maybe... maybe more."

"How?" Dad asks.

"Happens when you use your voice too much," Rosita answers.

"Must'a been a lot of screaming."

"Yeah, well, there's not much you can do other than wait for him to heal," Rosita explains. "And he will."

"But it doesn't mean he'll be alright," Dad says. "Doesn't mean he'll use a gun, or knife. How's he gonna protect himself?"

"He's gonna learn it all again," Carol says.

"He's in pain," Rosita says. "He'll need a while before rehabilitation starts."

"Rehabilitation?"

"Strength exercises, motor activities. It'll help, get him used to doing things he should be able to do, get him using his left hand. Emotional support, too. He needs time to accept this."

"He's not some broken little kid," Dad says.

"No, he is," Carol tells him. "He is broken, and he's a fifteen-year-old boy. And he just lost his hand."

"And he's _alive,_" Dad argues.

"Look," Rosita says, "he needs us to get him through this. He needs—"

They stop talking when I step out onto the porch. I walk up to Rosita and hug her. She asks how I'm doing and I ask, "How do we help him?"

Rosita sighs. "His arm will heal on its own, few months. When the inflammation in his throat's gone down, we'll see how he does trying to talk. The pain'll go, eventually. We just have to wait. He'll come around."

Dad is nodding to me.

I push my hat over my head. "I'll be back in a while."

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

Denise is taking Tara's temperature.

I'm focussed on not moving. I'm listening to my body, what it is telling me. It's saying: _You're hurting. You're hurting and you're bruised and you're scratched and you can't breathe right, but you're not dead, and it doesn't make sense._ It doesn't tell me anything about my hand. I'm avoiding all thoughts on my hand. Even though it's _all_ I'm thinking about. I'm even been moving it, like I wasn't bitten at all. I can feel my fingers when I wiggle them, when I clench them, open them. I feel the itch in my palm. But I glance down and it's an empty space.

_Oh,_ my body says. _It. . . It's. . ._ a white bandage and a red sling that my arm is strung up inside of against my chest. My right arm stops two thirds the way down. The painter forgot to finish the rest of me, ran out of paint.

The clinic door opens and I startle. I wipe my face but miss it entirely. I use my left hand instead. I'm crying too hard for it to help much.

"Hey, hey, shh..."

It's Carl.

He's crying, too. I tell him I don't like it here, that I can feel my hand, that I want Aiden not to be dead, that I'm happy that he is Carl and that he is here and that I love him for it and that I'm so, so, so sorry for lying. But my throat tears and I don't say anything.

Carl lets go of me. He takes my hand and wipes my face for me. He's frowning, grimacing, scowling. I think he'll pick me up and throw me across the room.

"_Oliveryou'resuchanasshole!_"

He grabs my face and kisses me. I sob.

"Asshole! I was so scared. _I was so scared!_"

I kiss him. And kiss him again. His kisses are angry and hysterical. I knock his hat off. Kissing him and holding onto him hurts but I don't let go for anything. It's Carl who pulls away. His whole face is wet and blotchy. I'm not sure what I look like but I know it's worse.

"I'm so glad you're okay."

_I'm not. I'mnotI'mnotI'mnot!_

He pushes his forehead into my chest, then looks up and kisses me again.

"I was so scared."

I hold him. I stroke the back of his head with my hand. I kiss his hair and cry and he cries even harder. Finally, he leans up to look at me. For a few minutes, we wipe our faces and settle our breath. Carl apologises to Denise for barging in. She smiles and says it's okay, then leaves for a few minutes to get something from her apartment.

I'm still crying. I never thought about mourning a part of my own body before. It's like a friend died. I can still hear Aiden, begging. _Don't let go of me._ I see his face, torn apart. It makes me flinch and cry harder. Something takes my hand and I startle.

Carl is staring at me.

I'm not sure who moves first, but I know that next I'm holding him, or he is holding me. It doesn't matter. It feels the same. I breathe into his chest and listen to him whisper into my ear. After a while, I stop trembling, and then after an even longer while, I stop crying, and the flash backs waver, and I'm whispered back to sleep again.

* * *

**Notes**

Check out the AU :D

Thanks for the awesome support, really, you guys rock.

As always,  
Happy reading :_)_


	25. Try, Part 1: Leftie Sucks

**DarthGranola **Thank you, I hope you're migraine is better now x

**purifiedwatergonebad **Ahahahaha! Thank youuuuu! That's so amazing! xD

**BloodGutsandChocolatePudding **I'm not sure I've ever wanted to cry so much after reading a comment. Omfg. What you said about Penelope, that was so beautiful. Ugh, Ily!

**Pas/RIGGSSIVAN **Ahaha, thank you! So much! Ily!

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

"Here, take your inhaler. C'mon, Oliver. No. Don't get up yet. You need rest. Take your inhaler."

I frown at it and cross my arms.

I want Carl.

**_Brat.  
_**_Given everything that's happened, I have licence._

I woke up and he was gone. According to Rosita, Rick came along late last night and took him back. She said Carl was so tired his father carried him. As guilty as it makes me feel since it's my fault he's so exhausted and worried, that _is_ a nice image in my head. Carl needs his dad, especially now.

I'm still frowning.

Rosita sighs. "Look, if you won't, I'm going to have to make you."

I take it. Using the wrong hand makes me feel backward. The Ventolin hits my throat and I wince and whimper. Pete, over with Tara, glances over at me, so I look away.

"Drink."

It's a juice box.

"It's the best I could find."

With one hand, pulling off the straw and poking it through the little hole proves difficult, especially when that hand isn't your strongest. I wedge it between my chest and cast, try and try, and by the time I manage, I've lose my appetite. I drink anyway and swallow six different pills. When I try to bend the straw, I drop the carton.

"I got it," Rosita says. She hands it back and wipes my shirt dry. I shut my eyes because, for one, it would be rude to smack her hands away, and two, I can't get up and leave. "Any numbness?"

I shake my head.

"Pain?"

Nod.

"Itching?"

I open my eyes and look at the place my hand should be.

"It'll get better. Promise. Can you try to talk?"

When I fail, she tilts my head back with her hand and gently presses her fingers to my Adam's apple. I wince, pull away, and shut my eyes again.

"Open your mouth for me."

I don't want to. I did yesterday. I wanted to bite her fingers off.

"Oliver, c'mon. Please."

I cooperate. Rosita presses a thin piece of wood to my tongue to hold it down while she looks at my throat. After a few minutes, she sits back and sighs. I open my eyes. She's crossing her arms and frowning. I frown back. I think I've decided to spend the rest of my life frowning.

". . . . Is Tara—"

"Shh," Rosita coos. While she talks, I look at her lips. They're tanned and thick. "Let your throat heal. Let _you_ heal."

I shut my eyes.

* * *

I'm allowed to leave the clinic.

Everybody's at Aiden's funeral, but I stay in the second house. I don't want to pay my respect to the air and pretend it means something. The pain killers aren't helping and whatever else I'm taking is making me drowsy and grumpy and giving me a rash where boys should not have a rash. I stay in bed all day. I want to sleep. I want to jerk off. I want to have a right hand.

Pretty sure none of this is ever going to happen for me again.

I go down to the kitchen and make macaroni. Can-openers take two hands to use, I realise. I stare at the tin for a second, and then I fling it across the room.

Gabriel flinches.

"Oh!"

He looks at me, eyes wide. I see his temples bulge. The funeral must be over.

"I hope that wasn't aimed at me," he smiles. I don't say anything. Gabriel swallows. "I thought you would stay at the clinic for longer."

Again, nothing.

"Oh, uh, right." He touches his neck. "You can't talk yet."

He picks up the can of macaroni and the can-opener and opens them for me at the counter. I leave the kitchen.

"Don't you want it?"

I stop, look back, swallow hungrily.

"I'll prepare it, if you want."

Slowly, I nod. Gabriel heats up the macaroni on the stove while I sit at the island and wait. He keeps looking back at me, like he's nervous. But he doesn't say much. Small talk mostly. When the food is done, he serves it up with a spoon.

He still looks nervous, and I want to say thank you, so, gently, I pinch the hem of his pastor collar between my thumb and finger. Gabriel smiles. He looks like he might cry for a second. He holds up a finger and makes a quiet, "Ah," noise, then turns around and goes into the pantry. He comes back with a small dried leaf. He places it on the macaroni.

"For flavour," he says, "and a symbol of peace."

I look at him curiously.

"During the great flood," Gabriel explains, "the dove sent in search of land by Noah, returned with an olive leaf. It was a sign from God that He had ceased His war on mankind. The flood was receding. Land was in sight."

He's smiling.

"Land _is _in sight, Oliver."

With a nod, I take my bowl upstairs.

* * *

In my bedroom, I sit on my bed with my arms and bowl on the windowsill and my forehead pushed against the glass. Like this, I can eat without having to move my hand too much, and if I get desperate I can just eat out of the bowl like a dog. Also, I can see Carl from here.

He's taking down the laundry on the line. Rick comes out after a minute with Judith. I lip-read "Hey," and "Putting her to bed now," and Carl says goodnight to them. Rick must ask where he's sleeping tonight, because Carl throws his thumb over his shoulder towards my house. Rick looks and sees me watching them and I almost duck, but sit up instead. He grins. I wipe the grease stain on the glass away and blush. Being a teenager is gross. Carl glances up at me, too, and smirks. Rick waves at me and goes inside, and then Carl is just grinning at me. I flip him the bird and turn away, and when I look back, he and the basket of dry clothes are gone.

Carl arrives to my house just as I finish my bowl. He sits on my lap and crosses his legs behind my back. I tuck my face into the cross of his neck and put both hands in his lap.

"Hey."

He kisses my shoulder. I reach out to touch his chest but bump it with my amputation and yelp. I forgot. _I forgot._ Carl tries to touch it, but I pull it back.

"It's okay."

I close my eyes, like before. My arm hurts so much I'm afraid I'll yack.

"Oliver, it is."

_It's gone. It's disgusting..._ I can't even tell him. My stupid throat won't let me. Carl touches my hand. _My hand. _I almost flinch, but I sit still and push my fingers between his.

"Is there anything I can do?"

I shake my head.

"Did you eat?"

Nod.

"Drink?"

I shake my head.

"Is it time to change the bandage?"

Again, shake.

"Meds?"

Shake.

Carl hesitates. . . "I can give you head?"

I'd laugh if it wouldn't hurt. Instead I shake my head and clip his chest with my fist. Gently, I grip his shirt, tug once, then let go. Carl sighs.

"Do you want to just... kiss, for a while?"

I smile and nod.

"Okay."

* * *

The next day, in the early evening, I'm in the first house, yacking again. I've thrown up twice today already, which sucks because I can't keep my medication down, and I can't keep taking more to replace them or I'll end up overdosing. I was just trying to sleep. All day I've been sitting around with Carl and Judith. Carol, who is effectively babysitting us, put Judith to bed a little while ago, and Carl was so tired that not even me getting out of bed to shower woke him up. I kept my arm up above the water. I tried to wash my hair. I tried to wash my body. I even tried to jerk off. Nothing worked. Leftie sucks. Can't do anything. Can't open cans or kill walkers or save anybody. . . so I thought about Aiden and the blood and the screaming, and staggered out of the shower and emptied my stomach into the toilet.

_"don't let go of me"_

_"don't let go of me"_

_"don't let go of me"_

I collapse against the floor, twitching and drooling and coughing. Even over the water, Lizzie's watch is loud from my pocket. . . _tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock._ I think I'm choking on myself. My body doesn't fit. I can't breathe. My heart is going to burst through my ribcage. It hurts. _Everything _hurts. I'm sweating and trying to calm down, but I'm so afraid. My thoughts are moving so fast they make me dizzy. I'm dying. I'm having a heart attack. _I'm having a fucking heart attack!_

I bend over the toilet and yack again.

Behind me, the bathroom door opens. I locked it. Must've used a butter knife to twist the lock from outside. Someone puts their hand around my stomach, another supporting my forehead. They're shushing me. It's Carol. She holds me steady. The shower is still running. I must've knocked the faucet as I got out because the whole room is clouded with steam.

"You're okay."

I'm yacking and crying and _dyingdyingdyingdying!_

"You're okay, _shh._ It'll pass, Oliver. It'll pass."

_Okay, _I think. _I won't die if she tells me I'm okay._ Finally the retching subsides, and Carol helps me sit back against the wall. I grab a towel and wrap it around myself, hating how this isn't the first time Carol has seen me like this. She flushes for me and helps me wipe my face. I'm wincing and shaking and embarrassed, and I really don't want to vomit anymore.

"Oliver?"

She touches my cheek.

"Oliver, open your eyes."

_"Mika, open your eyes"_

I'm crying, but I do as I'm told. I see silver eyes and silver hair. Carol makes me think of nickels, the ones worn smooth by worried thumbs and fingernails. She kisses the top of my head and I relax all over. My throat stings. I'm all sweaty and yacky. She kisses me again and gives me a glass of water. While I drink, Carol brushes my fringe back with her fingers and whispers, "Rough night, huh, sunshine?"

I take a tired breath.

She gets up and switches off the shower and the room begins to demist. "Thought you were all asleep. Here. Nell asked me to give you this." I'm handed a notebook. "Spare, said you should have it. Her exact words were, _"Wise men talk because they have something to say, and even with a missing hand and..."_ what was it? Oh: _"Even with a missing hand and temporary muteness, that shouldn't have to change."_."

Carol smiles.

"Strange choice of words, but, girl's got a point."

My chest swells.

"Kinda reminds me of Sophia."

_Me, too,_ I think, even though I never met her. _And Beth, and Mika, and Lizzie, and Drippy._

Carol motions to my notebook. "Try it out. G'on."

I give her an apprehensive look.

"Practice makes perfect."

I already feel like an idiot. I take the pen tucked between its pages and put the book on the floor. My handwriting is clumsy and childish. It's embarrassing.

_'are you ok'_

"Gotta be."

I look at her.

"Stay with me," she tells me, "just us for a while."

I frown. It's just that she's never asked me that before. I don't know why, exactly, but I write: _'do you miss daryl'_

"Sure, but I'm not worried about him. I'm worried about you." She holds out a hand. "Help me make casserole for the Monroes'."

I shrug, not wanting to and hoping Carol notices. She doesn't, or rather chooses to ignore it.

"Brush your teeth and wash your hands. Be quiet, don't wanna wake them."

* * *

Carol makes the sauce while I do the pasta. Pasta is my thing. Mrs. Neudermeyer's been handing pasta out by the sack-full. Carol took advantage to teach me. She has to carry the pot for me, and use the _scòla-pàsta_ – which Carol tells me is actually called a strainer, and I have to pretend that I'm cool with the fact that all I can do without help is mixing and monitoring. She doesn't even need me. I sit on the island counter. Carol gives me a look. I get off.

"Put that in the trash, please?"

I do. It's a cheese packet. Inside the trash can, something catches my eye. A small, crumpled piece of foil. I reach in and pull it out. Carol doesn't notice, so I tap my knuckle against the fridge to get her attention. She glances at me. I raise the foil between two fingers and cock an eyebrow.

Carol sighs, beat.

I put the foil in my pocket and grab my pen. I try to write: _'You're a worse chocoholic than me'_ on my arm, but again, leftie sucks, so Carol can't read it properly. I try not to get annoyed.

"Firstly," Carol says, "don't write on your arm. That's why Nell gave you the notebook. Secondly, you're in school now. You don't have an excuse to write like an uneducated hill-billy. You get a free pass for bad handwriting, but not bad grammar." I know she's kidding, but I can't help the frown on my face. "Thirdly," she says, softer. . . "I have another bar for you."

She tells me where it is. I use my teeth to unwrap the foil and snap the bar against the counter top. I give her the bigger piece.

"Can I ask you something?"

I look at her. I may also be concentrating on not drooling because _oh God chocolate aghhh..._

Carol hesitates. "Did – did Sam or Ron ever, uh, say anything, to you, about things going on at home? With Pete? Anything... bad?"

I shrug and cross the room to stir the pasta. I think about the day at Ron's house, how Pete treated him. The other day, while me and the guys were swimming in the pond, I saw a bruise on Ron's back. And there was one on Sam's wrist last week. He said he fell down the stairs.

"Oliver."

I startle.

Carol watches me.

"He said a few things. Sam," she says. "You don't know anything?"

I don't say anything. I think I'll get us into trouble. If I say something, Pete's going to get mad and take it out on his family. **_He already is... _**

"It's just, I know you scared him, that night," Carol says. "First thing he told me was that he hadn't told. He swore it to God. And he _was_ scared. But he put up with it." She sighs. "Kids. They don't do that. Kids complain and cry and wine about things, unless they've learnt not to."

I look at her like I don't know what she wants me to say.

"I just… I have a feeling."

She's doing that _watching _thing again.

"You have heard something, haven't you? You've seen something?"

Carol is more than experienced with this subject. I know that. Keeping this from her is more than an insult, so I nod.

Carol puts a lid on the casserole dish and places it inside the oven. There's a battery-operated baby monitor on the island. Judith is awake, wiggling and mumbling. I show Carol. She smiles. The way Carol smiles at Judith makes me think they have a secret.

I stretch my back. Ever since the grenade explosion, when I do this, my spine pops and cracks like a firework. This morning, Carl looked at my back while I was getting dressed and cried. There are a lot of bruises and cuts. Even though I wasn't blown up, I was certainly ruptured a little, especially on my right side. Denise said, "The air tried to burn you."

Sometimes I think that the world has been looking for a way to get rid of me all my life. It tries harder and harder every time. I'm scared it's winning. I'm scared I won't last a lot longer.

Carol looks up to me from a small piece of paper, pen in hand. She asks, "What should I write to them?"

_Sorry for your loss  
Sorry that your son died  
Sorry I couldn't save him  
Sorry that he died saving me  
Sorry that he was left behind even though I said no one would be_

I shrug, look up—blink.

The window.

Carol looks, too.

* * *

Sam is excited about my loss. He asks me if it hurts and he asks me if I saw it get cut off and he calls it _so cool _and tells me that the cast is awesome. "Red's my favourite colour, too!" And the crazy part is that he makes me laugh. I rub my throat and try not to wince.

"Carl's sleeping," Carol tells him, only mildly annoyed.

"Sorry."

She smiles.

"How come you won't speak?"

"Oliver's gotta save his voice, Sam," Carol says.

"But how will I talk to you?"

"He's got a notebook."

"Lucky you're left handed."

"He's learning to be."

I frown into my lap.

Sam hands me the notebook.

I draw a smiley face.

Sam giggles.

"So, what're you both doing?"

"Making a condolence Casserole for the Monroes'."

"What's condolence?"

"Saying sorry. Giving respect."

"Oh. For Aiden."

"Yeah."

"I liked Aiden," Sam says. "He was cool."

He sighs. The whole world sighs.

"I'm not sure a casserole will help. They're pretty sad."

"It's the best we've got," Carol tells us.

I take the piece of paper and walk over to her. She stands still while I cup around her ear and whisper, _"We're truly sorry for your loss."_

She kisses my forehead and takes the pen. "Okay, sunshine."

* * *

When the oven dings, Carol waits for the casserole to cool and then takes it over to Deanna's house. She leaves the front door open. Sam and I sit on the rocking chair; me sitting side ways while he sits on the edge, rocking it with his feet. The breeze is cool and smells of flowers.

"You left your notebook inside."

I shrug.

"And the pen."

I don't respond.

"What if you want to say something to me?"

_Here's the thing, man, _I think, _I don't want to say anything. _It's true. I like being mute and nobody expecting otherwise. Not talking is my talent. I kind of missed it.

"I came here a few days ago for the cookies you offered."

I look at him.

"Figured I'd wait a while," he says, "she was worried about you, so I figured I'd keep her company."

_Why is Sam even here?  
**It's the apple sauce for eggs. The stuff's magic.**_

I make a book shape with my hands and Sam goes and gets my notebook for me. He forgot the pen. I look at him apologetically. He goes and gets it for me.

**_I'm starting to get why Patrick liked being a big brother so much._**

When he's back, I write: _'She's worried about you, too.'_

It takes forever to write and I have to retry twice, but I manage.

_'She thinks things are tough at home.'_

Sam is frowning.

_'Sorry.'_

Sam just shrugs.

We sit in quiet for a few minutes.

_'My parents argued.' _

I poke him in the arm to get him to look.

"Really?"

I nod.

"Why?"

I shrug. Pat and I were never really sure. Dad worked lots and Mom never really talked to us about it. When Dad was home from his business trips, Pat used to make this joke: "It like we all go through the five stages if grief backwards. Acceptance that he's home, bargaining over how much it still feels like he's not, depression because we still miss him, anger because he never notices, and denial that he's even here at all." And I'd say back, "But we love him anyway, right?" And Patrick would just look at me really oddly and say, _"Che schifo,_ Dad's a hairy_ cavolo." _One time, Mom overheard him say that and grounded him for three days.

"Were the fights bad?"

I think, if anything, it was a _lack_ of communication that got them both on the wrong side of each other. Patrick and I would hear them bickering from our rooms. In the end, Mom would leave to go to bed, or sometimes Pat and I would go and find them in the kitchen. Dad would have his arms wrapped around her shoulders, or she'd have her arms wrapped around his shoulders. I don't remember that happening for the last few years though. One fight was bad enough that Dad left for Nashville a whole week early.

I remember the last night they were alive, when Mom turned and got Dad. Dad was sleeping downstairs. Patrick and I only knew because Dad's bedsheets were on the couch when we went down there. But they'd both turned by then. We'd already locked them in their bedroom. God, that was such a mess.

_'All fights feel bad.'_

I get the feeling I have no clue.

"Did they die?" he asks quietly.

I nod.

"Were they divorced?"

I shake my head.

"Do you think they would've? If none of this'd happened?"

I've never thought about it. What kid thinks about that?

Sam keeps talking: "Sometimes I wish my parents would. The fights. They get real bad sometimes. I have a bolt, inside my closet. Mom put it there. She tells me to lock myself in and to not to come out until morning. I can hear them. Dad yelling. Things breaking. Mom... crying."

Sam looks like he wants to stop there. He doesn't want to tell me anything else. But he's lost hold of telling. Each word pulls the next.

"Last month it got real quiet, right in the middle of it all. I went out to find her. Ron was gone. _I _found her. Mom. She was on the floor... bleeding. And Dad? Dad was out on the porch. Sitting in his chair."

He looks me dead in the eye.

"I didn't take the cookies," Sam tells me. "I keep too many secrets. Bad things should happen to boys who keep too many secrets."

I'm so guilty. I told him that. _I told him that. _Sam is crying and I don't know what to do. I touch his shoulder. Sam cries harder. I pull, and then he's climbing up and clinging to me and I'm hugging him back. I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I don't know how long it takes for him to stop crying, but eventually he sits back again and wipes his face. There's snot on my T-shirt.

"Sorry," he sniffs.

I pick up my notebook and show him the message I'd written before. _'Sorry'_.

"Me, too."

Something moves in the corner of my eye and we both look. Carol is standing on the sidewalk. Sam startles. By her face, she heard more than Sam wanted her to.

"Sam," she says, "come inside."

* * *

Inside, Carol talks him through his tears. She tells him this isn't something that can just be brushed under the rug, that she's going to do something about his father. And he keeps saying sorry, that he doesn't want to get anyone into trouble. And then Carol takes either side of his face and says, "Don't be sorry. Don't you ever be sorry for something like this. It isn't your fault. I'm sick and tired of you boys thinking things are on you when they aren't."

Sam stops crying.

"You want me to take you home now?"

He nods.

When they're gone, I slump onto the floor and lie flat across the rug. If I flex all my fingers, I can feel the tendons move in my forearms, but I only hear the run rustle against my fingers on my left side. I stop when I think I'll cry. The floor is comfortable and sturdy and grounding. I hear someone walking across the porch outside. Rick, I can already tell. He doesn't come inside. Carol's out there, too.

"I sent a casserole to Deanna's family," she says. "We want her to see that."

Rick's footsteps echo.

"You thought about Pete? About what I said?"

"Yeah," he says. And then Carol tells him about what Sam said to me, word for word almost. Rick asks, "Why do you care what happens to Jessie?" Rick asks her.

"You know why," Carol replies. "I know why you do."

Confused, I frown at the ceiling.

"Why?" Rick asks.

"I've seen you talk to her," Carol tells him.

Carl let slip his insecurities about Jessie and his father yesterday. He told me it was nothing, just something he thinks about sometimes, something he steals condoms over, too, apparently.

Carol leaves the topic there, letting it dangle in the air until a breeze carries it away. "If walkers hadn't gotten Ed, I wouldn't be standing here."

"Yeah you would," he tells her.

Rick walks away. Carol stays out there. I must fall asleep because the next thing I know is that my head is rested on Penelope's lap and she's playing with my hair. Noah is sitting next to her drinking something steaming. They're whispering.

"Did he tell you?" Noah asks her. "What happened?"

"I haven't asked."

"The aisle fell, knocked that box off. The grenade just rolled across the floor and..." Noah sighs. "He was closest, still a way away, but, God, it felt like it was right on top of him. But he still pushed me away. Saved my damned life. Almost died. Jesus, I swear he did for a few minutes. Tara wasn't waking up. There were walkers. We got her somewhere safe but Aiden wanted to go back for the inverters. Stupid. Got trapped. Crushed his whole arm. Nicholas ran."

There is a long pause.

"Glenn and Oliver got Aiden out though," he goes on. "Eugene stayed behind with Tara but we caught up with Nicholas again in the lobby. We wind up in one of these tiny-ass revolving doors. Walkers on every side. Eugene gets out with Tara, drives the truck around front and draws the walkers away. All Nicholas had to do was hold the door steady while Glenn broke the glass."

Penelope doesn't say anything. I don't risk getting caught eves-dropping by looking at her face.

"Nicholas. He panicked," Noah says. "He pushed his way out. Door opens on my side and this walker grabs me. Glenn had a hold on to me. Oliver and Aiden kept pushing. Saved me. Oliver got grabbed, too. But Aiden pulled him in and got dragged out. Oliver's trying to hold onto him. . . we watched him die."

Noah takes a deep breath.

"I was so sure I was dying that day."

Another sigh, this time softer.

"It went the way it had to. The way it was always going to."

"You always say that," Penelope says.

"Yeah. Ty would said it," he tells her. "He said that it's our duty to keep up with what's happening, and what's going on in the world. Face it. Keep our eyes open. Said it was called _payin' the high cost o' livin'_."

I miss him so much.

"My mom and dad. My uncle, and brothers. I know bad stuff happened to them. I know they were murdered, but... I'm trying. I'm paying the bill."

Penelope doesn't say anything.

"It's just how it works, right?" Noah asks. She must nod. I think I hear her sniff. Noah takes a deep breath. "This isn't the end," he tells her. "This is the beginning."

I hear him lean over and kiss her. Didn't sound like a lip kiss. I want to peek but I know I'll get caught.

"I believe in this place," Noah whispers. "It'll work out here. And, everything that happened to you, it's over now, like you said. You can choose to forget it. But forgetting isn't the same as hiding it. You let it go. And it won't end you when you do."

"You sound like him."

"Really?"

"I mean, him before. Before the turn."

I don't know why, but this stings a little.

"He said a lot's changed back then."

"You talk about it?"

"Guess."

"You talk about me?"

"We share a room," Noah answers.

"You know," she says, "if Oliver was ever keeping something from me, or he was upset and wouldn't tell me, I'd just wait for the right moment to ask. When he was sleepy, you know? When we were having a sleepover or something? I'd start talking about something he wasn't really all that interested in, get him bored enough to start drifting off a little, and then I'd bring it up - whatever it was he needed to share. And he'd always answer. It always came out."

Noah chuckles. "I'll keep that in mind."

On that note, I lift my hand and touch my hair. Penelope has braided my whole fringe. I look at her and frown. She laughs. "Sorry."

I yawn.

She spends the next few minutes unbraiding my hair for me. Noah says he's going to go home. He says goodnight and kisses her on the cheek, then fist bumps me and leaves for next door. I go to bed, too, except it's Penelope who kisses my cheek this time.

I touch our foreheads and smile.

"Night, Ollie."

* * *

Carl is still fast asleep when I go up. But he's sweating. When I get under the comforter, he's so drenched, I think he might've peed himself, and then I realise that he's trembling. Nightmare.

I shake his shoulder.

His eyes snap open and he grunts, "_No._"

I stare at him.

"Oh." He wipes his face. "Oh, jeez. I'm all sweaty."

He lies back and pushes the duvet away to my side. I put my hand on his damp chest. I must be cold because he shivers. He takes my hand in both of his. He's like a furnace. He presses my fingers all over his face to cool off, under his neck. Finally, he sighs and gives me my hand back.

"I was dreaming about the pigs."

I sit up and lean on my left arm, holding the back of my hand to the side of his ribcage even though my fingers have mostly warmed up now.

"I dreamed that everybody was getting sick again, turning. You were lying in that hospital bed..." He doesn't finish, but I can guess. I put my head on his chest and kiss him there. His fingers find my hair. Gently, he pulls, so I lay my cheek flat on his sternum and listen to his heartbeat.

"I gave them all names," he whispers, "the piglets. Not just Violet."

I chuckle smally. I knew it. But this is the first time he's admitted it.

"Cyan, Amber, Lavender, Periwinkle..." Of course, Carl Grimes is the only boy I know who names livestock after colours. "And Porkchop."

We both bust out laughing. My laughs, admittedly, are very quiet. I try to speak but that hurts, too.

"Spell it out," he whispers, tapping on his chest, "here, on me."

I prod him somewhere sensitive and he jumps. I bite my mouth and kiss him in the place I'd poked to settle him. He seems to enjoy it rather than anything. Regardless, I tap out the word _hi _into his skin.

"Oliver, I don't know enough Morse Code for that. Draw the letters instead."

In truth, I only know for sure how to spell the word _hi _in code, thanks to Penelope, so I focus on his chest and carefully drag my index finger across it and spell out:

'YOU NAMED ONE PORKCHOP?'

"I did."

I shake my head and grin madly.

"Called the sixth one Oliver," he whispers. "I didn't mean to. At first it was Olive, like the colour, but the _r _just... happened."

I kiss him, first on his chest again, but then his mouth.

"There's that smile," he whispers, kissing it and kissing it and kissing it. "An' that under-bite." He kisses that, too. I get embarrassed and bury my face into the crook of his neck, and Carl sighs and pulls me close, careful with my arm. I listen to his heartbeat through his throat.

"_Sei la mia anima gemella,_" I whisper, but I don't tell him what it means.

* * *

**Notes**

Tell me what you thought xx

As always,  
Happy reading :_)_


	26. Try, Part 2: Curiosity Killed the Cat

**JoselinCastillo'Skywalker** Aw! Gracias.

**Uriel867 **Thank you x

**Rolo-chan **You are so awesome! And, no, that's totally cool. I'm loving hearing people's different opinions on her. It's so interesting. OMG I DID IT JUST READ ON AND SEE AND I'M SO EXCITED GRACHCKK!

* * *

"**Roots" by Imagine Dragons**

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

For four days, Alexandria has been on pause.

I sleep and cry and don't talk, and Carl holds me and whispers into my ear and catches my tears into his shirt. Sometimes, through the open window, I'll hear Noah scribbling into his notebook on the porch. His new job's been put on hold until Reg is ready to teach him. Penelope's usually down there, too. I'll hear her talking to him and him mumbling back. But for the most part they're writing; her lost in stories and him lost in diagrams and plans. Tara is in the clinic, comaing. Eugene is over there a lot – I wrote him a thank you note for saving her. Carl gave it to him yesterday for me. But Eugene still burst in here and hugged me like a bear. I didn't say thanks, even though I wanted to. Everyone else is around, but I don't see them much.

I need help with everything. I can't dress on my own. I can't go to the bathroom on my own. I can't make food on my own. I can't even think on my own. Carl thought it would be good to try talking in the mirror this morning, to test my voice. Anything above a hushed tone ached, and so it's all whispers until my wind-pipe says otherwise. I am healing, though. I'll be able to talk again without it hurting. I will. Guess it's just difficult to keep thinking that when every real noise I make turns my throat red.

Carl and I are out on the decking, shoulder to shoulder with two thick coats between us, laid down on the wood panels with our heads hung back over the first step, the sun on our throats but the spring chill everywhere else. The wall looks like a cage, so I look at Judith. She's sitting on the grass in front of us, dressed up in about a hundred layers of yellow and pink cats and my red beanie on her head, covering her eyes. She keeps pushing it back to see. She's sat on a blanket.

"I still don't feel any different," Carl tells me, "being fifteen now."

Sometimes Carl comes out with things like this, like he's got a spinning wheel in his head picking topics at random. We've talked about this once, on his birthday while we were laid under the wall of stars I'd made for him. Perhaps he's thinking of it now because we're laid down again. Anyway, I'd asked him if he felt any different now. He said, "Not really. Did you?" and I said, "Yeah. Being fifteen's a lot better than being fourteen." Which was true, to me. I met him only a few days after I turned fifteen, and everyone at the Prison. I found my brother, and yes, I lost him less than a whole season later, but – "I spent sixty percent of my fourteenth year alive on this planet totally alone. It sucked. Since I turned fifteen, I haven't spent a day alone yet. Not really. That's pretty cool to me." And Carl said, "Think being alone counts when two people turn into one person?" and I frowned and asked, "What?" and Carl said, "We do it all the time." And I smirked and said back, "Yeah but I never feel alone when we do it." And Carl looked at me, all smiley and awkward, and said, "I do. I feel alone together with you." And I said, "That's an oxymoron," and he said, "_You're_ an oxymoron," and then we spent a little while being one person alone together before anybody came and caught us.

Carl and I haven't done that since I got back. Whenever the idea comes up, I think of how gross my hand is and I say no. So we do things like lie across decks instead, and he'll talk and I'll listen to him do that.

For a while now, Judith's been watching a spider build a web between two flower pots. She was going to touch it but Carl told her not to. She glared at him like he'd told her to quit breathing, but she relented and left the spider alone. I've decided that when Judith's older I'll get her to deal with spiders for me. This time of year, I find them everywhere. A few weeks ago, I ran across the house stark naked because I found one inside my towel. Both Noah and Daryl weren't impressed. I mean, I wasn't either, but if I have to choose between someone seeing my balls or letting a spider crawl in my earhole, I'm choosing the exposure. Noah didn't stop laughing, and Daryl couldn't look me in the eye for days.

"You okay?" Carl asks.

I realise I'm fidgeting. Have been for a while.

This is a good morning, in the grand scheme of things. I feel like I've slept enough and I haven't thrown up my food, and I actually want to get up and do something, leave the house, but Judith needs to nap and Carl isn't allowed to leave her alone. My bones feel like they're going to burst right out of my body. I need to walk. Just walk. Can't stay in that house for another day. It's too... something. Something I can't place. Plus, Carl and come with me later, if he wants to. So I get up and pull at my beanie. My feet are shifting nervously. Like they're trying to do something without letting the rest of me in on it. My arm isn't in a sling anymore. Its wrapped up, sleeve rolled up to my elbow.

"Oliver?"

I look at him, nod and nod and nod. There's this pent up energy building in the pit of my gut and I really _really_ don't want it there.

**_Maybe it's a side effect of no 'alone together' time._**  
_Shut up. It's not that._

It's something else. Still can't place it. It's not good but it's not bad either. It's just _there. _Like a headache only it's in my stomach.

**_Maybe you _****are_ going to yack.  
_**_I said shut up._

Carl's palm raises, as if I can put my messy thoughts into words. Still, I try. I run my thumb down his whole hand first. Not sure why. I'd started doing that a few days ago before I'd spell something out on him, like a full stop, only a full start instead.

_I'M_

I press his palm; my equivalent of scribbling something out.

_I NEED TO GO_

Scribble that out, too. Carl scoffs because I'm sort of just slapping his hand a lot.

_WALK_

That'll do.

"Okay... I'd come with, but Judith. I can get her stroller?"

I'm pacing the deck, so I stop, walk over, hand up.

"I'll take that as a no."

I make a sorry face. Truth is, I want to go on my own. I've spent almost every second with Carl in the last four days and as much as I love his company, I have to do something by myself.

"It's okay," Carl tells me, like he heard. I kiss his forehead. He touches my right arm. I pull it back. He touches the crook of my neck instead, brushing gently over a few stitches that are healing there. I touch my thumb to his bottom lip, nudging it gently with my fingers supporting under his chin. He brushes our noses, and with one kiss, whispers, "G'on."

I already have my knife around my waist after fitting it there this morning. I'd wanted to see if I still could put it on, and I did, eventually, but, taking it off was too difficult and so I gave up and left it. Carl puts Judith on his hip and follows me inside. I put on another coat. It's blue. Either mine or his, I don't know. It hardly matters, we're the same size anyway.

"Wait."

I stop at the front door, glancing over my shoulder while Carl jogs over from the living room where he'd left Judith to replace her with my notebook and pen, and without a word he pulls at the hem of my jeans and slips it in the gap between denim and underwear. He steps back, resitting my flannel and coats and giving me a smile. I don't return it. But I do touch my thumb to his lips again and brush our noses, mouthing _I love you_ to him when we break away.

"Kinda looked like you said _colourful_."

I kiss him. His eyes are closed when I back away, tipping forward because apparently he isn't done kissing me. It makes me laugh, or at least scoff.

He blushes, tells me, "Colourful, too, Oliver."

* * *

It's sunny but cold. Virginian cold. Mornings like this remind me of the mornings I'd help Mom tend to her Forget Me Nots above the front door. She'd stroke my hair out of my eyes and call me, "_Luce dei miei occhi,_" and I'd roll my eyes and ask her to pass the watering can. She sometimes called me _Il mio amore, _too. I call Carl both of those sometimes, but I never tell him what they mean.

The cold is making my arm aching. I try tucking it into my coat pocket. But it looks weird. It looks like I've lost my hand. I can handle the cold. It's whatever. Pockets are overrated anyway. Sleeves can get pulled down to cover hands or places hands should be just as well. The community is going about its day and the few people I pass don't stop and talk to me, just give me smiles and nods or waves. One little girl stares. It irritates me so much that I flip her off, and she's so shocked that she drops the toy pony she was holding and, ironically, its leg snaps off. Guilt smacks me across the face and I'm going to apologise but she runs off crying her eyes out.

I keep walking.

There's music coming from somewhere, probably the guys in the New Alcove –"Bon Jovi is God!" is what Ron hasn't stopped insisting ever since Penelope gave him the CD. I'd laughed. I'd grabbed Sam's ukulele and sung along with the music. I'd gotten that embarrassed flatter-glee feeling when they all clapped and cheered and chanted for an encore. It was fun. But it was still too... _something_. Something I still can't place.

That anxious growth tugs at my gut again. I'm like a dog that hasn't been exercised. I start losing my breath. My heart starts pounding. I'm sweating and my hand is shaking.

**_Just a panic attack. _**

**_Just another panic attack. _**

It sucks.

It sucks so bad.

Like hearing boss music in video games but not seeing the threat. I imagine my panic attacks are an ugly purple troll with three arms and no hands at all because fuck him he can't have two if I don't. It doesn't go away though, not unless I find something that takes my mind off of it. So I look around, and that's when I see Enid on the other side of the lake. The troll forgets to fuck with me for a moment, scurrying off back under its bridge, and I'm sort of left hunched by the gazebo, trying to catch my breath.

Enid hasn't seen me, and I'm guessing she doesn't intend for me to see her either. But I do see. I see the thin wooden poles in her hands as she heads towards my street. I think she'll go see Ron or Mikey but she goes behind the houses right to the other end of the street by the first house. The first place Carl saw her leaving. She's so sneaky. She's probably got some underground tunnel that she's spent the last nine months carving with a spoon. I bet it leads to a secret hide out where she gets all her infinite knowledge about everything, with files and top secret documents about pasta makers and cookie recopies.

**_Now you're just being childish.  
_**_Crossed that bridge a long time ago.  
**No you didn't. The ugly purple troll's still there.  
**Who's being childish now?  
**Still you, asshat.  
**I hate you.  
**Don't worry. I hate you, too.**_

I watch her disappear over the wall. I should go inside, forget this. Whatever to the fact that we've wanted to catch her doing this for weeks. Whatever to the fact that right now she doesn't even know I'm here, and without Carl I'll probably have a better chance at following her without getting busted. Whatever to how hyped up we've made doing this. We've thought up some cool tree house somewhere deep in the woods that she'd built herself, with a pizza machine and an M&amp;M's dispensers and tall stacks of paperwork that are filled with Alexandria's darkest secrets.

I get too curious.

**_Curiosity killed the cat, Oliver.  
_**_Hey. Curiosity is essential to a thriving teenage mind. I need that curiosity to grow.  
**Yeah? Well tell me when you grow your hand back.  
**Fuck you.  
**Fuck you, too.  
**Whatever. And anyway, I'm no cat.  
**You're a rat, that's what you are. You're supposed to get **_**eaten_ by the cat. _**

I'm at the wall, placing my palm against the rusting metal, moving it up, gripping the pole. I check behind me for any eyes in windows. Carl must be busy with Judith. Admittedly, I feel a little guilty leaving him behind. But I know that he'd tell me to go. He's just as curious as I am. I pull myself up and fall immediately.

Not karma.

Definitely not karma.

I try again. More successfully, this time. Enid takes a towel with her, usually. She'll take it down with her so Carl and I need to be careful as not to cut ourselves on the top. But now, when I get there, the towel is still here. On my way down I grab it. I figure my descent will be easier. Gravity on my side and all that. But half way down, my hand slips.

And.

I.

Fall.

All.

The.

Way.

Down.

Hitting the earth is like running into a concrete slab, at high speed, with a car, inside a truck, inside a plane, on the side of a fucking mountain. I lie there, silent, winded and sure I've paralysed myself. And then I'm just angry. There are a few minutes of crying, sitting on my hand, my head dipped and my chest caving in, until I'm stood up and I've wiped my eyes and I'm looking around the area outside of Alexandria. I see nothing moving so I pick the towel up again, taking out my knife, and I walk into the tree-line.

The moment I'm inside I feel calm. Really really calm. The woods are silent, in that deafening way that isn't silent at all. The sunlight scatters through the trees as I walk, makes me squint. I cover my eyes with my hand only it's not there so I drop my arm and fish out Lizzie's watch from my pocket instead. Something rustles ahead. I drop the watch and grab my knife, crouching. I hear it, see it. It sees me, too, because a twig snaps under my shoe. When it's close I kick it in the shin and stab it through the forehead. Lizzie's knife is hard to use with my left hand. I almost drop it, and another walker is too close, so I run. By the time I get away I'm furious, not because of my arm or my fall or my everything else, but because I forgot Lizzie's watch.

**_What is wrong with you!?  
It was right there!  
RIGHT THERE!  
You left her behind!  
You left her there in the DIRT! _**

My back's against a tree, arms wrapped around my head, pulling a fistful of hair and throwing my beanie across the earth. I'm so angry I see stars. I look for it, but I lose where I am. I don't know the forest well enough. I don't even know which way Alexandria is.

There's a fox carcass and I kick its skull across the ground, send it flying into a rock and it shatters. I keep looking. I'm following one ghost and searching for another. Because I can't find the watch, and Enid's left no trace. No footprint. No sound. No echo or mark or imprint. Nothing.

"Oliver."

I freeze, spin around.

"I know you're following me. Again."

It's Enid.

"And you're going the wrong way."

She's hiding in the forest, in the trees, in the air, in the nothing.

"You're quiet, I'll give you that," she tells me. "I heard Carl before. He's very loud."

I can't see her anywhere.

"Can you go back?"

Nowhere and everywhere, like she isn't here at all. But she is. Close, too. I can tell that at least.

"To be honest, you scare me."

I try to say we shouldn't be out here, but I can't get it out without hurting. And then suddenly Enid is standing a few feet away directly in front of me. She startles me enough I drop her towel, and my notebook slips from my jeans. It takes me a while to put the pen between its pages and try to tuck it back into my jeans, but I can't, so I'm stood here with a book and knife and towel in one hand, completely helpless.

"I couldn't talk either," Enid shrugs, "at first. I just, thought with you I'd... I thought I'd try."

I'm frowning.

"That's mine."

The towel. She walks over and awkwardly takes it for me. I get the feeling she left the towel for me. I get the feeling Enid is omniscient.

"Wanna put your book in my backpack?"

I shake my head.

"You frown a lot."

My cheeks redden, and I'm about to simply walk away, realising that mine and Carl's expectations of finding her out here have been heavily overrated. Carl and I would often fantasize over the cool secret cave she'd be hiding in; the big mahogany front door, the lantern that floated in mid-air outside with a pink and blue flame inside–Carl thought of that one, that and the giant green and yellow dragon called Pickle she'd have chained up outside (Pickle was who kept the lantern lit, by the way). I came up with the doorknob that can talk, and you'd either have to tell it a secret in order for it to let you in or you'd have to make out with it and talk dirty while it lavished you with its rusty brass tongue. But there are no floating lanterns or dragons or sexualised talking doorknobs here, and Enid is irritating me. Everything is.

"Here." She reaches out but I jerk my arm away. "Gimme the notebook." I do. She opens it, gives me the pen and holds the book up. "Put your knife away and talk to me."

I write: _'we should go back'_

This doesn't impress her. She looks annoyed, then nonchalant again, unaffected, uninterested. It annoys me.

_'shouldn't be out here. someone died'_

I want it to sound stern and authoritative as she twists the book around and reads, but it doesn't have that effect. "Oh, come on," she says exasperatedly, shrugging and putting the book down. "People always die. _You_ know that."

I dip my head, tapping the end of my pen against my leg.

"Besides, I've got something for you," she says. I'm frowning, and it's only when I stop that she shows me what's in her pocket. Lizzie's watch. I snatch it and stuff it in my pocket. "You're _welcome,_" she says sarcastically. "Mr._ Unappreciative._"

I tug her hand so she holds the book up, then write: _'why are you out here?'_ She takes a second to decipher it, shrugging in that Enid way when she does.

"Same reason as you."

Then, without warning, she takes off running, and once the moment of confusion and shell shock passes, I take off running, too, and I'm smiling, catching up with her, sprinting ahead, and she's smiling, too. That something. Is this what it is? Running? Running without being scared? Running without something chasing us? Running with no target to run after? Running just because we can? Purely because we want to and it feels good. . . so we keep running, weaving through tree trunks, leaping over logs, racing and letting the breath and pent up energy leave us in crazy _something_ tandem.

Then the threat returns.

Enid yanks me to stop. I'm panting, wincing, hurting, racing with adrenaline and a weird buzz I realise I love. I love it so much I'm still grinning while I watch the walker emerge through the trees. It's the same one as before that I ran from. _Focus,_ I remind myself. _Remember the threat. Remember it tearing a man apart less than a week ago. Remember it sinking its teeth into y–** Stop.**_

The buzz shrivels up and rots off. Not fun.

Enid pulls a cooking timer out of her pocket. She sets it for ten seconds, then throws, dodging back behind the tree with me. Both of us glance at each other. I'm panting, frowning, but impressed, and she's smirking.

_Riiiiiing…_

There's a tug on my sleeve, and Enid and I take off running again.

* * *

**Carl's POV**

The music is loud.

"Guys! It's me!"

"OLIVER!"

Ron and Mikey haven't actually seen Oliver since the run. I saw Ron yesterday, hung out with him, haven't seen much of the other's much. I think I've been avoiding Mikey. Everything with Nicholas' sort of put a strain on our friendship. Stupid, I know, but it a side-affect when your boyfriend loses a hand, guess.

"Bon Jovi, again?!" I ask.

"_YES!_"

Bean trots over and sniffs my hand.

Ron burst around the door. "Where – where is he?"

Before I reply, Ron speaks again.

"Does he officially qualify as a pirate now? Or does he still have to get an eye patch and a parrot?"

"Ron," I say. "Go easy. He's not exactly as thrilled about it as you are."

"_Dude,_" Ron says. "He got bit by a geek and he's still _alive_. And he chopped his hand off. That's freaking awesome!"

"He didn't chop it off, idiot!" Mikey calls from the attic. "Noah did."

"I heard he tore the walker's throat out," Ron says. The stereo is turned down a little and we go up.

"Bullshit!" Mikey accuses.

Penelope's here. No Enid. "Hey, Carl."

"Hey, Nell." I'm not sure when I'd started calling her that. Even Oliver's been spelling her short name lately. I'd been guessing it was because it took less time, but it kind of seems like more than that. Like she really is just Nell now.

"No, seriously," Ron goes on. "He did – ripped it right out with his bear hands." It's uncomfortable watching him demonstrate on himself. "Mom heard it from Dad who heard it from Rosita who heard it from Glenn, who, you know, was there, so..."

Mikey grimaces. "Gross."

"Kinda cool, though," Ron shrugs.

"Guys, stop," I insist. "He hates it, really. Just, try not to make a big deal about it."

"Yeah," Ron says, "sorry."

I shrug, wishing Hershel was here for Oliver, or Tyreese or Bob. Though, Bob and Tyreese never really had time to deal with their amputations. Hershel did. Hershel would know how to help, how to let him accept what's happened. But we're all Oliver's got.

Ron is chugging a can of Mountain Dew. When he's emptied it, he lets out a loud burp. I laugh.

Yeah, Oliver hit the jackpot.

They've got more posters up.

"Did he tell you what happened?" Ron asks curiously. "Like, the full story?"

I just shrug, carefully not looking at Mikey.

"Noah told me what happened," Penelope says. Mikey looks at her, then me. I look back. "Mikey," Penelope whispers suddenly, and her hand comes up, touching his sleeve, but he pulls it away from her and stands up.

"I gotta go to the bathroom."

Ron either doesn't notice the black air between us all, or he chooses to ignore it. "So, where is Oliver?"

"Well, actually I came here to find him. But I guess he's still out for a walk," I answer. Bean rolls over at my feet, looking like he doesn't want to rip my balls off for once. Ron's frowning.

"Enid, too," he says.

"You think they went together?" Penelope asks curiously. She's looking at me, twitching her eyebrows. I realise she means over the wall.

"Probably," I shrug, petting Bean's neck now.

"Why would they go together?" Ron asks.

"They're friends," I answer.

Ron shrugs after a second, telling me, "I didn't think she liked you guys much."

I scoff insecurely, and then there's a tug on my sleeve. I look at Penelope, grinning when Bean pushes his whole forehead against my arm. Bean's quickly becoming my favourite animal in the world, even above Violet.

"Y'okay?"

"Come help me with drinks."

"You haven't brought more beer, have you?"

Penelope smirks, "Just OJ."

We make drinks downstairs.

"Just... don't hate Mikey, okay? It's not his fault."

I look at her, setting four coloured cups on the counter. "I know."

Penelope sighs, shaking her head. "No. You don't. It's about what his father said."

"What?"

"The stories," she whispers. "Carl, they're different."

I frown. Penelope almost steps back.

"Nell," I say, "what's going on."

She inhales. . . "Nicholas says that your – that, Ollie and Noah and Glenn... left him and Aiden. To die. That they were only trying to save themselves. That Ollie only got bit because Glenn and Noah didn't try to help him."

I almost scoff. "What and Mikey believes that?"

"Nicholas' his dad," she answers quietly. "He's been providing for this place for almost two years—" She stops when I step back. . .

"You believe him."

Penelope's silence is like a stab in the back.

"What the hell, Nell?"

"Carl."

"Are you kidding me?"

"I... I don't know."

"Yes," I snap back, "you do. You know Oliver. You know Noah. They wouldn't lie, especially not to you."

"I've known them for a month."

"Not Oliver," I say. "You've known him for five years."

"Yeah," she says, "and for the last two of them I thought he was dead."

We stare. Green on blue. I worry I'll stagger back against it.

"It's changed both of us," she goes on. "It's changed everyone. Not in a bad way. I mean... it's mandatory, you know? The Ollie I know now isn't the same Ollie I grew up with. And, that's okay... that's brought him here, now, alive. But it means that I'm just, you know, getting to know him all over again."

"He's still Oliver."

Penelope sighs, like she's giving up.

"They wouldn't _lie!_"

"I'm not _blaming_ anyone," she argues, hushing herself. "I'm just, not taking sides. Diplomatic."

I just stare at her.

"Come on," she says gently, "get the drinks."

"No," I say, "no I'm leaving."

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

Leaves and twigs crunch under our feet, until finally we collapse against a sturdy looking fallen log on the ground. We were holding hands, but we let go so we don't crack our skulls. The place looks clear. I'm breathless, pushing back against the log, wheezing.

"Did you bring your inhaler?"

I nod, fishing it from my pocket. I take a dose. It hurts. But it gets better. Enid's grinning, and I only realise I'm grinning too when I cough.

"We're supposed to be out here," she says. "We're supposed to feel like this. I don't wanna forget."

_Wait...  
That something.  
She feels it, too?_

"And, running makes me feel better."

She looks at my eyes and I look at hers, too. The pale blue in them are catching the sun through the trees. Looking at Enid's eyes is like looking into a clear pond with all the old algae covered rocks at the base. I think I'm mad. I think _we're_ mad. But I think I like this, being out here, mad and running and _something. _I'm frowning again. Enid shuts her eyes, tips her head back, and stays like that for a while. She's like a flower, photosynthesising the sun.

"You know, I kind of miss not talking."

I frown more.

"I mean, I liked just... watching things," she elaborates, still photosynthesising. "Observing. It's kind of amazing what you notice when you don't have to talk." She looks at me. "You know, for a boy who just lost his voice, you don't seem to have much you want to say."

I frown defensively and fold my arms. Can't. Folding arms is impossible when you're missing half of one. Enid watches this happen. I motion to her backpack and she gives me my notebook. I write: _'For a girl who lost her voice once, you seem to have a lot to say.'_ But I have to scratch it out a few times before I get my handwriting good enough. Sometimes, if I write with my left hand for too long, it makes me feel sick with Backwards.

"Touché," Enid says.

I'm not done, it seems. I write: _'I have dreams'_ Scribble the last word out – _'nightmares. About being in the forest with them and the people I've lost.'_

"Me too."

We both look ahead again, catching our breath.

"What does it feel like? Only having one?"

What does it feel like? It feels like I don't have a right hand anymore. It feels like I'm never going to write properly or use a gun or put on my clothes or – or fucking _jerk off_, like, ever again. I'm never going to play an instrument or hold a book, or drive a car, or clap, for damned sake. I'll never fix a shelf, or use a power tool, or twist a can opener, which I kind of really, really, really fucking need to be able to do sometimes. I'll never interlace my fingers behind a cup of coffee. I'll never clasp my hands while listening to a friend. I'll never be able to take both of Carl's hands and lock our twenty fingers all at once. And my fucking palm is itching right now and it shouldn't be because it isn't even there! So, how does it feel? It feels great. Just great. I _love_ not having my hand. I fucking love it.

"That bad, huh?"

I didn't say anything.

I ignore her. I want to prove that I could have something to say – _do_ have something to say, even though I have no idea what to talk about.

I write: _'Did you really see us that day out here?'_

Suddenly, she laughs into her hands, blushing.

Shit.

_Shit._

**_Shit!_**

"_You_ followed _me_," she defends herself. I'm cringing. Embarrassed isn't even the word. Enid keeps talking. "You were talking about something Gabriel said, then the next thing I knew..."

I grimace and hide my face in my knees.

"I didn't stick around, if that makes you feel any better." She's blushing and I'm glaring. "Okay, I didn't stick around for very long."

I rub my palm down my face.

"So, did you tell him? That I was there?" she asks. I shake my head. Why would I tell Carl? He'd shrivel up into a mortified prune. This is something that needs to be kept between just Enid and I. Never spoken about again. Ever. "Fine," she says, like I'd just taken the fun out of a game she was looking forward to playing.

Desperate to change subject, I write: _'Does anyone else know you come out here?'_

"Not really," she says to the book.

_'Not Ron? Nell?'_

"Ron, no, I... He wouldn't understand," she answers, looking at me again. "Nell does. She comes with me sometimes if she catches me. But, she doesn't so much anymore. I'm careful, or, I tell her not to come."

Seems like there's a lot of that going around lately.

_'Do I understand?'_

Enid doesn't answer for a long moment, and when she does, her voice is soft and a little coarse, like she's embarrassed to admit it. "You knew I wanted apple juice."

I let out a breath that was supposed to be a laugh, and like that day when I guessed she'd want the apple juice, I win another _Nobel Prize _because I think I make Enid blush. She looks away and takes out her knife, then spends a minute carving into the tree trunk beside her. She's wearing almost the same attire as when Carl and I saw her out here; purple cardigan, shorts cut off at odd lengths – one leg stopping right at the knee and the other just past it. I stop looking at her knees. I look at my notebook instead, re-reading the pages and pages of sentences that I've written since I'd been given it and deciding that when I get back I'll pin the ones I like most to my bedroom wall. It's the closest thing I have to posters.

Very very softly, I whisper, "Why would we scare you?"

Enid looks at me, smiles. "I dunno you just do," she says, looking back to her carving. Her blade is clean, stainless steel, the handle wooden and varnished.

"Cool – cool knife."

"It was my mom's," she whispers back. "What about yours?"

Lizzie's knife's not nearly so high quality; a shorter blade and a stubby, worn, black handle. In truth, it would look more like a long rock than anything if the sharp steel blade wasn't sticking out of it.

"Belonged to a girl I knew," I whisper. The ball of my pen hovers on the page, writing by itself: _'she killed her little sister with it. They're dead now.'_ I tear it from the book despite knowing Enid already read it. Once I scrunch it up I throw it across the forest. Not for my wall.

"See?" Enid says, quiet, careful. "You know people die."

I frown. ". . . What happened to you? Before?"

"Does it matter?" she asks. I nod immediately. Because it does. "Why?"

"Something bad's happened to me, too."

A pause.

"You really are the Bogeyman, huh?"

I stare.

Enid looks like she might start yelling at me, but she deflates, says quietly, "I was there, too. The night of the party. How did you let your brother get sick? Why'd you lock your parents in their bedroom?"

I try to move away but she pulls me to sit where I am.

"Get off," I mutter, wincing. She doesn't let go so I push her.

"Hey!"

"Why were you watching!?" I squeak. "Why are you always _watching?!_"

"You were right outside my house!" she yells. "I'm amazed it was only me that saw."

I can't even look at her. I think I'm going to have another panic attack. I think that ugly purple troll is going to eat me whole. I wince when I put too much pressure on my arm, pushing my hand against the floor to take the weight of my body better.

"I'm not trying to threaten you, Oliver," Enid explains, picking up my book. "I'm just showing you." I grimace, confused and angry and guilty all at the same time in a horrible mixture that makes me want to yack. "Some things don't need to be told, not again," she says. "Like Nell. She's fragile. She doesn't say it, but she is. She's been through more shit that you can imagine, so stop expecting her to talk about it."

I smack my book away when she holds it out. "She w... wanted to tell me. . . other stuff f-from b _–agh–_ before the bad."

"No!" Enid barks. "She didn't! She did that _for you_. She was trying. She was trying to be good to you. Because she loves you. So damned much."

"Y – you don't know..." It hurts too much.

"Really?" Enid retorts. "Really, Oliver? I have ears. And I'm quiet, like you. Only I'm just better at it. I know a lot more than you think, jerk."

"You don't know shit!"

"You and her might've been best friends before everything went bad," she is saying calmly, "but she's a different Penelope now."

"Not fair."

"It's not fair on any of us," Enid says. "You know that, so stop acting like you're an exception. Stop moping around hiding from everyone just because you look a little weird now."

I'm so furious, only then there's a growl and then several more shuffling through the forest behind us. Enid and I are on our feet before we see them, nowhere to run without being noticed. Enid grasps my sleeve and yanks me back, slipping us both inside a hollowed-out tree trunk a few yards away. She knew it was here.

In minutes, a whole herd is ambling right around the trunk, moving North, I think. The growling is so loud I can't hear our breath, but I feel hers against my neck, and see her hair puffing away from her cheeks when I breath, too. I try to calm down. I try to push back a little so we aren't so smushed. The mould and bark rub and crumble off against my clothes, and I scrunch my eyes trying not to think about anything with more than two legs crawling around in here.

Enid's breath stops. When I glance at her, I see that she hasn't held her breath, just settled it. She's calm, unlike me. I'm still shaking, that dying feeling is progressing, the troll stalking, and I don't know why or what to do to stop it. I have to put my hand up and grip a part of the trunk next to her so I don't pass out. It takes all of my strength. If I black out now I'll get us both killed.

**_Don't pass out. Please, don't pass out._**

"Shh."

Her hush is right beside my ear. I'd dipped my head, almost resting it on her shoulder, my breath heaving.

"It's their world, Oliver," Enid whispers. "We're jus' living in it."

My eyes are wide and wet as I pull them up to see her, and my breath shakes. But she's smiling. In all of this, her face inches away from mine, she is nothing but confidence and nonchalance. I can feel the paleness in my face, and when a wave of trembling takes me over again, I double forward, _dyingdyingdying,_ and I hear her laugh softly under her breath so I pull my face up, pushing myself back. I don't understand why she's so comfortable here, so exposed, so close to me, with the walkers so close to both of us. Why isn't she completely terrified?

"Cool," she whispers. "You're afraid of me, too."

She makes me irritated. Angry. I wipe my face, squaring up, at first trying to prove her wrong, refusing to look away to show that I can hold my ground, that I don't need to avert my eyes or step further away into the tree trunk to make myself stop shaking, that I'm not afraid of her. But then I'm looking at her just to keep looking at her, sorting through those elusive thoughts that I can't seem to get a grip on for anything. I want to know what she's thinking, what it is she knows about me and my family, why she's so confident out here, what she's seen, and what she and Penelope have seen together.

I look at her mouth and her lips press together, gently releasing a moment later and blood fills and darkens the skin there again. Only her smile fades. Not the corners. They stay upturned, slightly, picking away at my thoughts, and in spite of myself I only just realise I'd been watching her lips for so long.

When I touch her hand I realise what I'm thinking, so I stop, my thumb and fingers slipping away from her skin. But I'm still thinking about her. It's like being a passenger in a car and wondering what would happen if I grabbed the steering wheel and drove the car off of a cliff. I don't want to, and I don't have any intention to, but I'm still thinking about it anyway. . .

_I don't like this.  
I don't like this at all.  
I don't like her being so close.  
I don't like the walkers.  
I don't like this hollowed out tree trunk._

**_. . . Liar._**

I want to hide back inside my bedroom, under my comforter lost in another book where there are no walkers or runs or death or missing hands. No strange questions that sound like they already know their answers. I want to be in a place where elusive girls don't smirk at me with the kind of lips that make me wonder what it would be like to kiss them.

**_Stop..._**

She's watching me. I'm gritting my teeth, look out to the walkers, but I can still feel the small shift of her body when she looks, too, her chest against mine. I see her blink, because I'm looking at her again, watching the way she purses her lips and presses her teeth over her bottom lip. It makes my mind seize. It makes my cheeks flush. It makes my blood pound, and I'm thinking about how scared I am and how angry I feel and how fast I'm breathing and how steadily she is breathing. The way her breathing sounds, the way it feels against my chest and collarbones, but then suspicion makes me glance down. . .

_No._

Immediately, I pushing myself as far back as I can and cover my groin with my hand. Two would be great right now. Two would be _so _great right now. I shove back so hard I get worried I'll crack open the entire tree. Enid is confused for a second, but then she looks, too.

_Mother fucking fuck.  
What the fuck?  
What the fuck do I do!?_

After the second of shock wears off she's humane about it, neglecting its acknowledgement almost as quickly as she recognises it, which doesn't exactly say much given the fact that if she were to react any more then we'd both get torn apart right now. This is something I'd have thought would be good enough reason for me _not_ to think about that type of thinking, but it's not, obviously, because I'm still a fucking _tent._ I close my eyes, clamp them, hating myself, and I'm not sure how long it takes for the herd to pass, just that it's slow. But finally, it's clear. Enid steps out of the tree trunk, tugging my shirt shoulder when I remain inside with my eyes closed and watery and jittering in their sockets. When I open them, looking up, I see the look on her face. . .

Empathy.

I feel ashamed and gross and mortified.

"C'mon, Oliver."

I'm sitting on the ground. I have been for a while now. Sitting with my knees up to my chest and my arms wrapped around them tightly, hiding my indecency. I look away from her, squirming inside, nauseous, my mind reeling and my hand gripping my knife so tightly that my knuckle is white and gaunt and numb.

"Hey."

_Don't._

"It doesn't matter."

_Don't talk about it._

"I know they just happen sometimes."

". . . Just," I croak, "lea – leave."

Of course, she doesn't. Instead she looks around, circling the whole tree, and when she returns she takes a seat right in front of it, crossing her legs and staring at me. She twirls her knife in her fist. "So, now that I have you here. Let's talk."

_Shit. _

"The night of Deanna's party," she says, thumbing at the tree trunk, "you were with Sam. I saw you drag him across the street. Tell him all those things. And then that old lady came along. Carol."

"She's not old."

Enid shrugs Enidly. "Read somewhere that your hair turns grey when you go through too much stress."

Doesn't sound far off the mark.

"Surprised more people aren't. Worry seems pretty easy to come by lately, huh?"

I don't answer.

"Like... Ron worries about his mom and brother and dad, but, you already know that, huh?" She doesn't give me time to answer. "Carl. He worries about you, a lot, and his dad and his little sister, which, I'll admit is just an easy guess. And, um, Mrs. Neudermyer. She worries about how long her stupid pasta maker's gonna last. I worry about Tokyo Ghoul. Because I know that you've been trying to get your hands on it for weeks now, and I hate that small part in me that actually wants to let you borrow it."

I can't keep up with her. Talking to Enid is like Reading a book while people are talking. Carefully, I loosen my grip around my knees a little, though not much. Enid looks like she's trying to decipher a code on a locked safe.

"You worry a lot though, too, huh?"

_Everyone does, _I think, _like you said. Don't act like you know me. _

I shrug.

Enid sighs like she's bored; most likely due to the fact that it is clear that we aren't going anywhere any time soon until I've stopped being such a teenage boy. "What was Carol doing that night?"

I shrug again.

"I saw," Enid says. I almost whip my head up, but I catch myself – don't even glance. I can imagine her narrowing her eyes at me. "Fine," she relents, "I didn't. But I know she was doing something she shouldn't – you tried to grab that sack."

_I_ hardly even remember that. But I remember what happened next and my stomach's barrelling to my throat.

"She hit you."

I do snap my eyes up at that, staring.

"Does she do that a lot?"

"_No!_" I gasp. My voice sounded like it ripped. "She isn't – abusive."

"Ever heard of Stockholm Syndrome?"

I actually bare my teeth.

Enid frowns. "How can some old housewife be so important to you?"

I force my voice. "Brave."

"_'Brave_'." She uses air quotes.

I'm furious and mute and glowing redwhiteblack.

"I understand a lot more than you think," Enid argues. "I'm just not very good at explaining myself. And you're _jumbled_, Oliver. You're all cluttered up inside so you aren't hearing me anyway. But I'm trying anyway because I like you, for some reason."

_Try all you fucking want, Enid. Try try try._

"Jesus. I get it, Oliver. I do."

I scowl.

_What do you get?  
I don't even get it.  
I don't get this._

"You shouldn't have been w – watching."

Enid looks sorry, but she doesn't say it. Instead, she says, "They're coming."

I hear the growl before I see it, the clumsy rustle of leaves under decaying feet. It must be a straggler. We're both stood. I grab her hand to pull her back inside but she pulls away.

"It can see me. It's just one – hey."

I move out. It's the same walker as before. With my knife in hand, I watch it come closer. Enid tries to stop me.

"I have it."

I step in front of her when she tries to move around me.

"You have one hand."

She gets in front, but I pull her back. It's too close, lunging. I keep it away with my right elbow, but a tree root trips me up and sends me stumbling backwards. I drop my knife trying to push its jaw away. The walker lands on top of me, growling and shrieking and clawing and snapping. I don't have another hand to kill it.

"E – Enid!"

_CRACK._

Cold wet oozes across my neck. I grimace and gag. The walker's staring at me, blank and dead with its mouth wide and dripping. A wooden varnished handle is yanked back, a pale fist clenched around it, and then Enid is shoving the walker off of me. It's big and heavy and I have to help push. It smells so bad I'm heaving for a second, my back against the ground and my hand over my nose.

That wasn't fun.

"Crap. Oliver, you okay?"

I nod, breathless, sort of patting her arm in thanks as she kneels beside me, exhausted. I see the fear on her face. Real fear. It's so startling it stuns me. Her eyes are wide, pupils blown, cheeks pale and blotchy, and hair's damp and flung messily across her face, with the straps of her backpack fallen at odd angles over her arms. I laugh, but stop when it hurts again.

"What's funny?"

I point at her face, laughing again, the silent kind.

"Shut up." She returns my knife. "Here."

All of a sudden she sounds sweet. Her smile, too. Sweet.

"Don't think that little girl would want you to lose it."

My smile fades.

So does hers.

"Know what Mikey mentioned the other day?"

I blink, elbows dug into the ground. I feel dirt under my fingernails; gritty and cold. Enid hasn't leant up yet. Her back is hunched, knees tucked under her, a left hand supporting her weight between my hip and arm, in her other hand is her knife, the blade bloodied. I shake my head in answer. She doesn't stop staring. Neither do I. We keep staring and staring until waiting for her to talk is like waiting to shoot a gun, ready to fire, picking the right moment.

"He said there were two little girls who died."

_Inhale._

"Lizzie, and her little sister Mika."

_Exhale._

"See, Oliver?"

_Brace for the kick back._

"You know people die."

My thoughts compress, detonate, self-destruct. It's the bullet firing from the gun in my head. I don't kiss her. For a moment I think I will. But no. I don't want to. But I do want something. _That _something. I want someone to understand. Not the same way Carl understands, or Carol. There's more than one way to understand someone, I think. Enid understand things in a different way, like it's not personal, like it's not attached or consequential. Like it doesn't matter even though it does. I don't know how else to explain it. It's how she understands everything.

I hug her.

Enid almost startles, but then she sighs, almost laughs. I get the feeling she's been expecting this. I get the feeling she's been waiting this whole time for me to finally figure my muddled thoughts out into the result of this single, sudden, clear moment. Because she knew. She knew that all I needed was another voice to echo my thoughts. Someone to listen. Someone to get angry at. Someone to fear and appreciate and love and hate all at the same time.

Someone to understand it.

That something.

She's hugging me back.

My eyebrows are furrowed and I start crying. Enid lets me. Finally, I pull away, swallowing the throb from my throat and wiping my face. Sticky walker blood rubs off with my tear. I grimace, wanting to cry and laugh at the same time.

"You're fast. I'll give you that, too."

I wipe more tears, not sure what she means. Enid smiles, as if to say it doesn't matter. For a few minutes she watches me sit on my hand and sob.

**_You cry too much.  
_**_I know.  
**Well, stop it, boy.  
**I'm trying.  
**Why are you crying anyway?  
**I don't know. I don't even think I'm sad anymore.  
**Happy?  
**No, not that either.  
**Then what type of crying is this?  
**I don't know.  
**There's too many types of crying. Too many types of feeling. Too many types of emotion and not enough self-awareness for you to recognise any one of them, so stop it. Stop crying, Oliver. I'm tired of this. I'm tired of you always being the one who cries.**_

I stand up on two feet.

"Ready now?"

It's an odd thing to ask. It's not like I've said anything about not wanting to go back. In truth, I don't want to. I want to go inside that tree trunk and stay there on my own until the _cryingforsomereason _goes away, but I nod anyway.

We get our things and are about to go, but I catch something strange about the dead walker. On its forehead. A symbol, or a number. No, a letter, carved with four slices.

_W_

Enid's looking, too, but I hook her sleeve and tug her to come with me. I don't like it when people play with walkers. Writing things on them is another way to play, like writing things with them. Once, before I found the prison, I was following a family of quail through a forest, trying to catch one to eat, but I found severed walker bodies that spelled the words _'GO BACK' _except the _back _part was an actual _back. _I booked it out of there so fast I probably could have caught the quail on my way, but I didn't, I just got the hell out of there. Yeah, I don't like it when people play with walkers.

"Shh," Enid hushes. She takes my hand again and I look at her all panicky and jittery. She smiles, pulls, "C'mon, sport."

* * *

We're climbing over the wall behind the house and Enid is telling me, "I'll let you read Tokyo Ghoul," when we hear a big smash not far away. We hit the ground and Enid pushes my notebook into my hand, thinking too much at once because we're already running. I throw it across the grass and it lands on the second house's back porch. There's grunting and yelling and screaming.

"DEANNA!" Reg shouts from further away.

We get around the houses, between Ron's and mine, and that's when we see the full-blown wrestling match. Rick rolls over on top of Pete, their hands clenched around each other's necks and blood spilling down their faces from the crash they'd just taken out of Ron's living room window. Pete throws a punch, knocking Rick off.

Glenn and Nicholas sprint across the street. Enid and I come to a stop, too, standing off to the side, staring. Rick's gained the upper hand again, punching Pete in the jaw. Jessie sobs. Sam sprints to Carol, clutching around her middle, his hands full with a remote control for his toy boat. Carl's here, too. He must've just come out because he looks tired, like he'd been napping. I tangle our fingers, but when Pete rolls over on top of Rick, choking him, Carl is rushing over. Jessie, too, scrambles to them, trying to pull her husband off, but Pete's left elbow comes up, colliding with his wife's face and throwing her backwards with a cry.

"Mom!"

Ron grabs her, holding her while she cries into his chest. Rick is back on top of Pete, choking him. He's going to kill him. I will. Jesus, he will.

"Dad!" Carl grabs him. Me, too. "Get off!"

Rick shoves us away, thrashing his son around the chest, and when Carl flails backwards we both land hard on the concrete. Carl rights himself before I do. Rick has a death lock on Pete's throat and he's not letting go for anything.

"Stop!" Deanna barks furiously. "Stop it!"

There are too many people watching. Pete's turning purple. Rick is growling, "Touch'm again, and I will kill you." Shit. He knows what Pete's been doing. Ron looks at me and I shake my head frantically. Wasn't me. I kept my promise. I kept all of them. I swear! But I don't say this. Can't.

"_DAMMIT,_ Rick!" Deanna shouts. "I said _stop!_"

He lets go and Pete retches into the cement, his face red and blue, temples bulging and eyes wide and swollen. They're both bleeding badly from the plummet through of the window. Rick's got a cut so deep across his nose he's bleeding down to his mouth, dripping off his chin like the night Carl told me the Claimers found them. There's glass everywhere, in their faces and hands and clothes.

"Or what?!" Rick orders. When he pulls his gun out, the crows flinches. "You gonna kick me out?!"

"Put that gun down, Rick," Deanna says.

People are yelping and gasping.

"You still don't get it," he growls. "_NONE_ of you do! We know what needs to be done and we do it! We're the ones who _LIVE!_"

My heart races. I'd pulled Carl behind me. I want Rick to stop talking. I didn't think this would all come to the surface like this.

"_YOU!_" Rick roars at Deanna, blood everywhere. "You just sit, and plan, and _hesitate!_ You pretend like you know when you _DON'T!_"

I hear, up in the guard tower, Sasha shooting down at walkers gathering at the walls. I watch her silhouette against the setting sun.

"I wish things weren't what they are," Rick's goes on. "You wanna live? You want this place to stay standing? Your way of doin' things is _done!_ Things don't get better 'cause you _want_ them to! Starting right now, we have to live in the _real world._ We have to control who lives here."

"That's never been more clear to me than it is right now," Deanna says.

My blood runs cold.

Carl's, too.

"Me?" Rick almost laughs, stretching his arms up to the sky like he's challenging it not to crash down on his head. Blood streams down his face. He looks dangerous. "_Me?_" he says again. "You – You mean _me?!_ Your way's gonna destroy this place. It's gonna get people killed. It's already gotten people killed! And I'm not gonna stand by and jus' let it happen. If you don't fight, you die! I'm not gonna stand by, and ju—"

Back when Rick punched Aaron that morning we met him, I didn't expect it. I thought maybe he was going to speak with him, be diplomatic. Something similar happens now, only as I watch Michonne march towards Rick with a hard expression and her fist bawled tight, I know exactly what she's about to do. . .

_CRUNK!_

Her fist collides with the back of his skull and with no noise, Rick Grimes slumps to the ground, out cold.

* * *

**Notes**

God damn it, Oliver. Stay in the fucking house. Guhhh! You're worse than Carl! Fuck.

Is it bad that I loved writing this chapter?

It's all your fault **BloodGutsandChocolatePudding **for introducing me to I'll Give You the Sun! Grr! Thank you, seriously, it's such a great book!

Thank you to **Rolo-chan **for the Tokyo Ghoul recommendation.

Check out the AU x) more chapters!

As always,  
Happy reading :_)_


	27. Conquer, Part 1: Explode

**RIGGSSIVAN T**hanks xD It is a fun escape, huh? Yeah, Nell's getting pretty misguided lately.

**BloodGutsandChocolatePudding **Thank you! Yeah, writing Enid is such a weird thing for me. I've probably gotten her personality totally wrong from the show, but to me she seems like the sort of girl who can get in your head like that. All that shrugging. I love her character. She's so interesting.

**Rolo-chan **You're welcome xD Okay, no, I'm totally loving your opinion. It's such a thrill to see you look so deeply into this. Noticing that it was her that brought it up etc. It's really cool and it's such a challenge to please, but in a good way, and I _love _that. Penelope's super complicated, to me at least. She tries to be one step ahead of everything and it usually ends up biting her in the ass. And she's so guarded that she refuses help even when it's handed to her, kind of like Oliver, at times. Before, it made them perfect for each other, like you said in your AU review (WHICH MADE ME SQUEAL!) but now it totally makes them clash. They want the same things but they're so afraid. And yes, I'm assuming that the show will have more scenes with just Carl and Enid together (which Oliver won't be interfering with) where I'm hoping they can get closer bond together, but just a little more stably than hers with Oliver. Haha And fuck. I love your ideas. Wanna just write this with me?! Haha. If (when ;D) I use some of that I'll give you credit. Thank you! Your reviews are so helpful.

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

"Is he crazy?"

I shake my head.

"Are you?"

Shrug.

"That doesn't make me feel better, Ollie."

I give her an apologetic look.

"He's dangerous."

I don't argue. I just whisper, "Needs to be."

She looks away. "He'll kill someone."

It occurs to me too late the lying might be a good idea.

"And you'll stand by him, no matter what."

We're sitting next to each other on the roof. The small gap between us feels like a million miles away. I grip the edge tight. Rick's in a brownstone apartment, has been since last night. Denise patched him up. There's talk of a meeting tonight about what happened, and what to do. Some are saying that Deanna's going to kick Pete out, other's say Rick, and even more say it'll be both of them.

Michonne's over there now talking to him. Carol, Abraham and Glenn, too.

"Why do you trust him?"

I'm tired of answering all these questions. I'm tired of keeping secrets.

I just whisper, "He saved my life. Saved Pat's."

"Did a pretty shitty job of it."

I look at her. Penelope looks away, grits her teeth. Before, I spent so much time thinking about how much I missed her and loved her, how beautiful her words were, that I forgot about how much they could hurt, too.

I think I'll burst with angry, boil over like pasta in a pan. I'm too small to take it. Too small and I'm too useless. I am sick of pretending that I can handle it.

"Screw you, Nell."

She ignores me.

"You and Enid go around like you know everything," I whisper. "Like you got it all figured. You don't. Not all of it. You're just. . ."

My throat catches fire.

"You're just girls. You're afraid. Alone. Sad. Just like the rest of us."

She looks at me.

"Pat got sick," I growl. "Th – _that's_ how he died."

I have to stop. It hurts. It hurts so bad that I can't breathe.

"I'm sorry."

I look at her. She looks like she means it and that makes me feel better.

"Rick," I whisper. "He's family. My family."

"Family can get you killed."

I don't know what this means.

"Sorry," she says again. She rubs her face. "I'm so tired of living in here, up in my head. I spend too much time in here."

I give her a sorry look.

She shrugs. "You are who you are. That's just how it is. You don't have to live with it. You just have to accept it."

My eyebrows furrow. I don't like the way she said that.

"You don't get to decide who lives or dies," she tells me. "People die. You're gonna lose them. There's no changing it." She grimaces. "If you change, you don't get to come back. You're not supposed to. We change to survive."

"We don't change completely," I whisper.

"Yeah?" she asks me. "What's left of who you were?"

_What's left of who I was? _I think. . . **_A memory? An empty space? An afraid little boy with a scratchy voice and a missing hand?_**

I haven't answered, so Penelope changes subject.

"Carl and I had an argument yesterday," she says. "He's angry at me. I know why. I _get_ why. Can you tell him I'm sorry? And when he tells you why, can you remember it, too? That I am sorry? I'm not taking back what I said but I am sorry that it's made him so upset. And I'm sorry that you'll be, too."

I'm frowning.

Penelope picks up her notebook, kisses me on the cheek, and leaves through my bedroom window. I want to go after her. I want to find some way to straighten out everything tangling up around us. But I know not to.

* * *

My window is broken.

Inside my bedroom, I try to figure out why it won't stick, and why it's so difficult to slide up or down, and in the end, I give up and stick a dictionary in the gap.

I sit at the end of my bed and gaze up at the wall opposite me. I've slowly been filling with pictures and various objects I've collected over the past few months; a square of tin foil that still smells of chocolate, a beer bottle top, some fifty dollar bills with moustaches over Benjamin Franklin's face. There are some drawings by Carl up. He's been drawing a lot lately. My favourite is this sketch of a buck. It makes me think of this dream I had once. There was water and a buck and that Carl _was_ the buck.

Penelope's still taking photos. I get a few a week that don't make it into the recruitment pile. My favourites are the one of Bean by the lake, soaked and sprawled on his back with his tongue out. There's another that was taken in front of the wall outside school of Carl, Ron, Mikey, Penelope and I pretending to be the Avengers. Carl, aka. the Hulk, because he was wearing a green flannel, is in an I-just-destroyed-an-entire-city-street-because-I-lost-a-game-of-snap-with-Captain-America pose. He's roaring at the sky furiously with his hands bawled to fists. Ron, aka. Thor, because of his floppy hair, is stood with his arms crossed, glaring proudly at the camera. Mikey, aka. Iron Man because he's his favourite, is knelt with one fist pressed to the asphalt in a just-pretend-that-the-cement-is-exploding-right-now pose, grinning like an idiot because in that moment Ron – I mean _Thor_, just told him he looked more like he'd just accidentally crapped himself. Next to them is Penelope, aka. the Black Widow. She's knelt on the asphalt with one hand down, one leg tucked under her, and the other stretched out to the side. And then there's me, aka. Spiderman, because I'm wearing the T-shirt. I'm extending my right hand out, attempting to shoot a cobweb at the camera. In the moment, Enid snapped the picture I'd jumped in the air.

My third favourite photo is of me, Mikey and Ron swimming in the lake—Penelope, Enid, and Carl didn't want to go in. It was early, and the sun was shimmering across the water. We're in our underwear, our mouths wide in shock from the cold. Ron's drenched and yelling, "Guys, my balls've turned to prunes!" and Mikey laughed back, "I think you mean raisins." I laughed my ass off.

I tack a few notes from my notebook up, too, just odd things I've written or someone else has written in there, like yesterday, while Pete was getting stitched and Jessie was getting treated from her bruise, Sam was afraid and upset, so Carol and I stayed with him to cheer him up. At some point, he'd written_ 'I am the COOKIE MONSTER' _in my notebook for me to find. Carl wrote another that says, _'MINE.'_ He stuck it on my ass and I didn't notice until Michonne pointed it out.

I remember my favourite photograph. _The _favourite. _The _photo of _all photos. _I stretch across my bed to my bedside table and root through the drawer. It's not in there. I frown, sit up, look closer. Nothing.

"Hey, man."

I startle.

"Here," Carl says. He hands me the photograph. I look at him. He smiles wanly. "I, uh... I took it. Forgot."

There was a heated debate between Carl and I for who could keep it. I was pretty convincing. Copious amounts of touching and kissing were involved, until I had my heels locked behind his back and he was forgetting his own name, and I said, "I get to keep it," and he just nodded and grunted and said, "Fine. You win."

But anyway, the photo.

It's the one Penelope took that day, of Carl and I kissing on the porch. At the time, I felt so close to him, like we would fit inside each other, and when I saw the picture for the first time I realised I wasn't far off the mark. There is no visible tongue, despite what Penelope said.

"I didn't mean to interrupt?" Carl says. "Want me to come back in a few minutes?"

I frown at him and push his butt while he sits on the bed with me. He jolts off balance and resits himself.

"Kidding," he laughs. "But, you know, I can come back in a while. If you'd like."

I roll my eyes. I didn't want to keep it to jerk off over it..._ mostly_. Whatever. Carl snickers and bites his lip.

". . . .Why did you have it?" I ask him.

"Why'd you think?"

I grin and put the picture back in my bedside table. I keep it in there because when it _was_ on the wall, Rick saw it. I was showing him what I'd collected. The photo slipped out of my head. Noah was trying to give me looks to warn me but I missed them all, and then Rick saw it, the photo, and his eyes almost popped out of his skull. It was a moment in my life I never need to relive, thank you.

I sit next to Carl.

I'm fiddling with the toggle on my hoodie.

"I didn't go see him," Carl says. "I didn't want to."

I sigh.

"Did you see Tara?"

Nod.

"What's up?"

I'm still fiddling.

Carefully, I write everything I want to say to him. . .

_'Carol told me this morning about the gun your dad had. Said he stole it from the armoury. The night of the party I saw her stealing more. The morning after, she told me to tell you about it all, so I did, about Sam, but I wasn't sure about the guns so I didn't tell you that part. She didn't know your dad stole the gun though, not until yesterday._

_Nell told me to tell you that she was sorry for your argument, that she's sorry but she isn't taking it back. I'd like you to explain what happened because she's starting to scare me.'_

I hesitate. I know he's reading over my shoulder.

_'Yesterday I went into the woods with Enid. We talked. She saw me and Carol that night of the party. She saw Carol hit me. We talked about Lizzie and Mika. And' _

I draw a bunch of scribbles and sigh steeply. Then, suddenly, I push the notebook into his hands and shove my fist against my comforter. It aches with Backward. Carl rereads. I filled four pages. Carl reads it again.

"I know she's sorry," he says. My stomach grows a rock. "Why'd Dad and Carol take the guns?"

_'Just in case.'_

Carl's still frowning, talking to the book. "Think they'll take this place?"

I shake my head, more to say I don't know than to say no.

"Why did Carol hit you?" Carl asks.

_'I was drunk, followed her while she stole the guns. Got mad at her. I got mad at me, too. She slapped me and I stopped.'_

Carl takes a deep breath and looks at me. . .

"You and Enid?"

There it is.

The elephant in the room.

"_'And'_?" I stare at him. "Did something happen?"

I nod.

"Between you two?"

I inhale. Carl looks pale, like he might be sick.

"Did you cheat on me?"

Blunt. He always has been. I, on the other hand, have always been better at subtlety. Even so, I shake my head immediately.

_'I thought I would. For a moment. But I didn't want to.'_

"Did she?"

I shake my head slowly, write: _'I don't think she thought about it.'_

Carl's breathes.

_'I was stupid, got scared and upset." _I write._ 'She understood. But not like you. She understood like it didn't matter. She didn't care.'_

It's easy to be blunt when you write it down. I keep going.

_'It was easy to let her get it because she wouldn't care like you would.'_

"What, so I care too much?" Carl asks. "That's on me?"

I touch his arm but he tenses up, so I sit back and keep writing.

_'I don't want you to see me that sad. With Enid, it didn't matter to let her see it because she didn't try to help. She just let it happen.'_

I wince and curse in my mouth.

_'We were hiding from walkers. I was angry and scared and muddled and — I got excited.'_

Jesus hell.

Carl stares at the page. I think he'll grimace. I think he'll bust out laughing. But he just sort of blinks and looks up at me. He asks, "Like, excited excited?"

"I'm sorry."

"Why?"

"I went out there without you," I whisper.

He pulls me close and touches our forehead. "You didn't do anything, right?"

"Right."

"And you didn't want to."

"No. It was just embarrassing."

"Thinking."

"Thinking," I whisper back.

"We all think," Carl explains. "I do. I don't tell anyone but I do. Sometimes."

I open my eyes and look at him. He leans back.

"I think about what boobs feel like," he tells me, "what _girls_ feel like. And, I think about kissing, uh. Kissing Enid, and Nell, sometimes. I think about kissing more than one person at a time. And... well, I can't actually remember any one time, but, I'm pretty sure I've wondered what it'd be like to go down on Daryl before."

My mouth is open. I can't tell if I feel jealous or amused or shocked. Except I can. I feel so in love with him that all I can do is stare. Carl keeps a level expression, even though he just revealed more sexual fantasies with me than he'd ever intended to. He shuts my mouth with his hand and shrugs wanly.

"I think it's normal, to like thinking about that stuff," he explains. "I wouldn't actually do it. I mean, sure, I'm kinda mad at you, and I kinda wanna throw you out a window, call you a shithead, but I won't."

My heart is bursting and I hug him. Carl hugs me back. I can feel him grinning, the heat on his cheeks, the nervous giggle into my throat.

"You are a massive shithead, though."

"I know," I whisper.

"And, don't worry," he tells me, "I think about going down on you tonnes more than anyone else's."

I laugh until I can't, and laughing is suddenly all I ever want to do again.

"You wanted to know why Nell was sorry," Carl says. "Nicholas lied about what happened on the run."

I pull back and stare at him.

"Nell told me what he said. Said Mikey told her. She doesn't know who she believes. I got mad, walked out, and I'm pretty sure Mikey hates us, too, and Ron now, especially me after last night."

"What did Nicholas say?" I ask a little too harshly.

"That you all tried to leave him and Aiden behind. That it was Glenn and Noah's fault he got killed and you got bit."

I'm so furious I start shaking.

"Noah and Glenn'll be at the meeting tonight. They'll argue their case," Carl says. "Oliver?"

I look at him.

"Turn around," he whispers.

I do. I want to cry. He sits behind me, linking his feet around me so that I'm sort of sat in a bowl of his legs. I pick up my arms and let him pulls my hoodie and shirt off over my head. The abrasions on my back are a little better. When he kisses them, it doesn't hurt much.

"I'm sorry you lost your hand."

He tries to reach out and hold it, but I pull it away.

"Let me see."

I shake my head.

"Please. Let me see. I want to see."

I shut my eyes. I don't want to show him. I don't even look at it myself.

"Please."

Mad, I turn in his lap and push my arm into his hands. _Backwards. _I refuse to do it myself, however. I don't even look at him. I sit still and angry while he carefully runs his fingers over the scabby stitched skin on my arms. He touches my bandage. Tugs. I wince and he startles.

"Sorry."

I glare at him.

Carl sighs.

Relenting, I glance at the first aid box. If he wants to look at my arm so much, he might as well change my bandage.

"Is it time?" he asks. I nod. Carl grabs the box from my desk. "You want me to do it?"

I shrug, nod.

"Okay," he says. "Guide me through what to do?"

I do. I take him through the healing creams and the cleaning process. It's grim. There isn't much blood anymore. It's like a really big messy looking scab over the whole place my arm stops. There's this thing I keep doing. It's like when you wake up and you shuffle your feet under the covers, can't help it – Carl does it so much in the mornings I sometimes hold his legs down until he starts laughing and whispering his surrender.

But my thing?

I'll feel that itch where that itch shouldn't be, and I'll flex my imaginary fingers. Carl sees the tendons in my forearm move and shudders.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't think that would happen."

I'm crying.

"Oliver, it's not bad..." His voice cracks. "It's not."

"It's gross."

"It's not," he insists. "Here, please?"

"No."

"Oliver, give me your hand."

"Can't."

"Give me your hand."

"_I don't have a hand!_"

I try to hold it in, all that angry, but my brain fills with bees and I explode.

* * *

The next thing I know is that my insides are on fire. There's nothing I can do to stop it. Flames of red and black and blue jut off and catch the curtains. Small embers dust the carpet behind my feet. My bedside lamp smashes against the wall first, exploding with green flames that only I can see. My alarm clock is in my hand. I throw it across the room. Its flames are purple, like the flare. Books then. Their flames are every colour, every story. I tare a poster off the wall and yellow sparks sputter as I rip it down the middle. Everything on the wardrobe flies across the room, orange and pink and indigo flames swooping in their wake. Something cracks, and something else shatters.

"OLIVER, STOP!"

I do. I can't breathe. These noises are coming from me, like I'm crying and yelling or something. A photograph is in my hand; the one of the pond, a drawing, too; his buck, and another drawing is floating down around my feet; a cartoon, torn, and Carl is directly in front of me, arms up on the wall to protect it. He's breathing hard and his eyes are fire. The blue kind that you get in science class.

There's pain.

My stump is in his hand and I yank it away from him. Aches. Bad. I step back and swallow hard, and when Carl steps closer to me he gently takes the papers from my fist. My hand stretches open, like it's searching for something to hold on to so he takes it.

He sits us on the floor under the wall and the flames recede and dull away again. Carl sighs. I cry like a baby. It takes me a few minutes to realise he's crying, too, and when I do realise, I hug him. He shuffles onto my lap, hiccupping and sniffing into my shoulder with his arms around my middle.

"You ignore it," he murmurs. I know he's talking about my amputation. "I understand why. I do. And, I'm not trying to remind you. I just don't want it to ruin you."

I'm nodding.

Carl takes my amp, doesn't even hesitate. He presses it to the side of his face, all the scars and scab tissue and the burns. I cry again. Cry and cry and cry.

". . . Y – you don't h – have to touch it."

Carl doesn't say anything. He kisses it. I tell him I love him, and I keep saying it while he applies the rewraps it with a clean bandage. He helps me clean up my bedroom. It's never quite explained in books or movies how anti-climactic and embarrassing cleaning up after your own hysterical breakdown is. Carl is humane. When we finish, he grabs my notebook. He tears out our conversation. I frown at him.

"We need to get rid of these," he says.

* * *

We decide against burning the notes and instead tear then into small pieces and soak the remains into mush in the bathroom sink. This may have been a poor decision. We put the soggy pieces in a bowl and Carl carries it out onto the roof. It's hard to get out the window.

"It was me that broke it... sorry."

I want him to tell me the story, but he grabs a handful of soggy paper.

"You ready?"

I nod, scooping a handful, too. It feels like cold flat slugs.

"One," Carl counts, "two, three!"

We throw.

Leftie still sucks, so I can't throw very far. But in a few minutes the paper is gone, or pasted across the wall. Carl's pretty sure nobody'll notice.

"Come on," he says, "let's go in."

* * *

It's around midday.

I've been helping Carol make lasagne. It's for Pete, since he's staying in a house near the clinic now, but she doesn't tell me any of this until she's getting ready to leave. I must look annoyed, because she steps over and combes my hair back.

"You know what I miss right now?"

I shake my head.

"Your smile."

I look at her and she kisses my forehead, then leaves. Noah arrives just after. He gives me the first volume of Tokyo Ghoul and tells me it was on the porch. Enid must've left it. Carl said he's going to try to talk to her soon. I try not to feel like a kid with a bad report card.

"Oliver, can I talk to you?" Noah asks.

I look up from Judith.

"Haven't gotten much time to talk to you yet."

_Yeah, _I think, _guess chopping off someone's hand can make a friendship pretty awkward, huh?_

"I wanted to thank you," he says, "for what you did at the warehouse. Wouldn'ta made it if it weren't for you, man. So thanks, for saving my life."

I nod, and after a second push his shoulder. Noah leaves to find Penelope. Reg is still mourning, so Noah can't start his new job. But he's been making plans, wall expansions mostly. Some stuff to make the fences sturdier. He says the biggest thing he's actually started on is a dog house for Bean.

For a while, I sit with Carl and Judith on the couch and read Tokyo Ghoul. It takes us a few pages to realise we're supposed to read right to left. When we finish the volume, we sit around and do nothing. I'm bored. _I am bored._ For the first time in a long time. I look at Carl. He looks worried. And then I remember the meeting tonight, and Rick maybe getting exiled, and Deanna, and Penelope. And the boredom disappears. People don't get to be bored anymore. We're all too busy trying not to die.

I touch his collarbone.

There's a bruise.

Carl pulls his coat up to hide it.

His dad made a mistake. I don't need to tell him. But the worry is eating him, no matter how much he's ignoring it. He hasn't showered and he hasn't eaten and he hasn't slept. He looks like a mess, smells like it, too. I take his hand and push my thumb in between his index and middle finger. Whatever happens tonight, I won't let anything happen to him. Carl and Judith aren't going to get in the middle of this.

Then Rick is here, shutting the door behind him.

"Dad!"

Carl is up from the couch. Rick opens an arm and they hug. Judith fusses. I give her attention but I can't pick her up like she wants. I haven't much yet. I get scared of dropping her. She settles on curling up to my side instead.

"You okay?" Carl is asking his father.

"Yeah."

Rick looks at us, and then he walks over and swallows me in his arms. Judith, too. His face is all cut up and stitched, and his right hand is wrapped in a thin layer of bandage.

"Look, I'm sorry."

Carl shrugs. I think about the bruise he's hiding.

"We heard about the meeting," Carl says, following him into the kitchen. I listen to them while Judith sits on my arms and rests against my chest, picking at my hoodie.

"You're stayin' home," Rick says. "Both o' you."

"That's what it is now, right? 'Home'?"

The pause is calm.

"Yeah."

I look and see Carl shift on his feet, like Rick does sometimes. His head's tilted.

"They need us," he says. "They'll die without us."

"I might have to threaten one of them," Rick says. Carl knows this. "I could have to kill one of them."

"You won't."

"I might."

"You have to tell them."

"Well I told 'em last night."

"You have to tell them so they can hear you."

Dragging a man through a window and beating him purple in front of his wife and children and community was definitely not an effective strategy. They may have heard him last night, but they certainly didn't listen.

Rick looks lost. He looks at me. I don't know why. He does that sometimes; looks at me like he's waiting for my say, my opinion, like I can help or like I might know what to do or say. What he sees on my face, he doesn't like, but he doesn't ignore it either.

"I don't know if they can," he admits.

Carl sighs.

"Does that make you afraid?" Rick asks.

Carl shakes his head and shifts on his feet again. "For them. You _have_ to tell them."

Rick looks at his feet and nods.

"I'll try."

* * *

**Notes**

Nell's kinda mean, huh. . .

You know when I do that thing? Writing _'out'_ instead of _'our'_ and_ 'or' _instead of _'of' _or mixing up _is, it, _and _if, _and I miss the last letter in weird words like heart _(hear) _or some other shit like that? Well, it really fucks me off, and I always do it. I get my tenses muddled. Body parts mixed. Blah blah blah. _So_, I'm sorry. I'm only human.

Hope you enjoyed this one.

**Only one chapter left until the end of The Easy Part. I'm getting freaked out by the word count. I'll upload the last chapter of this after I watch the premier of S6, then in a few weeks I'll have the first chapter of the sequel up :) **

Open to suggestions. Tell me your thoughts!?

Check out the AU

As always,  
Happy reading :_)_


	28. Conquer, Part 2: Mellifluous

_Review replies at the end..._

* * *

**Carl's POV**

Mikey can't find his dad.

"It's okay," he says – nobody believes him. "It's just... weird. He doesn't stay out this long, ever. After Aiden, runners aren't supposed to leave, not this late."

"Glenn told us," I say.

Oliver is fiddling with Maggie's music box. He snaps it shut, and the soft song stops. His teeth are gritted and his cheeks are shining and blotchy with frustration. He isn't happy about being cooped up, at all. Plus, Oliver's furious at Nicholas, so are Glenn and Noah, but nobody can do anything about it.

Mikey rubs his mouth. "I figured he was getting ready to go to the meeting, but the meeting's starting in an hour and he's just... not here. I guess I thought, with, you, Oliver, working with him, you might have an idea."

Oliver looks us, and his face is all anybody needs to know that he doesn't.

"Do you think he ran away?"

I regret asking this immediately.

Mikey's face is a crack in a concrete road.

"Dad wouldn't just..." he retorts. He looks at Oliver, then back to me. "What did he tell you?"

"No, nothing," I lie.

Oliver's voice is so raw it's hard to understand him, but I think he says, "You're an idiot if you believe what your dad told you."

Mikey scowls.

The air is turning red. The walker blood kind of red.

"What the hell is your problem?" Mikey hisses.

Oliver can't speak anymore, and it makes him furious. He's so furious I'm scared he might march across the room and start a fight, and it looks like he will – I'm about to stand between them, but just then Abraham is stood at the front door with a cluster of flowers spilling over his hands. They're floppy and long and white.

"Listen," he says awkwardly, trying not to drop them, "any o' you know where I can get a vase for these?"

Nobody speaks for a few seconds, so I shake my head.

"Probably somethin' at the clinic," Abraham says, then goes to the dining room table to do his best job at neatening the flowers into something of a bouquet. When he can't, he stares at them hopelessly; lower lip bunching up his thick orange moustache. Oliver walks over, and without a word he neatens the flowers for him. Abraham frowns gratefully and slaps Oliver on the back hard enough he jostles.

"Thanks, Oliver."

"You gonna see Tara?" I ask.

"Yep," Abraham answers.

Oliver sits on the couch. I'd been leant on the back, Mikey opposite nearer the door, and because Oliver is Oliver he decides to straddle the back instead, back to me so he can look at the others. His hand is behind him, keeping balance. I touch it.

"I think Rosita and Eugene're there," I say, "the clinic."

Abraham stops mid-step, looking up at the wall opposite him in some intense uncomfortableness. There's still bad blood between him and Eugene, but Abraham ploughs through and leaves anyway. He'll attend the meeting, too. Dad's getting ready in the first house. I think Michonne's over there, too.

"I should go," Mikey says, apparently defused now.

"To the meeting?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "I gotta stay home 'til it's all over, uh." It's only now that I realise Mikey might_ want_ my father to be exiled, and all of a sudden it's my turn to want to throw him out a window. "Sorry, dude. See you. But, uh, you know, good luck and everything."

He doesn't mean it.

When the door closes and it's just me and Oliver, I put my walls down and collapse against Oliver's back. His hand comes up and back through my hair. Dread makes my mouth dry and my breath shallow. I hold it. I'm imagining Deanna's expression, pointing a finger at the gate as she orders my father to leave. But he wouldn't let it happen: just before he crossed the gate, he'd swing. Turn the tables. A hidden pistol in his belt, like yesterday, maybe even a knife in his sock. He'd put a bullet between Deanna's eyes. A blade across her throat.

I shudder.

Then, gently, Oliver is pushing me, knocking us back, and we land in a messy comfortable heap across the couch together. I tuck my nose into his throat, tangle our shins and wrap my arms around him, and he puts his hand under the hem of my shirt and tickles my hipbone with his thumbnail; but the soft and slow kind of tickle that feels nice rather than makes me kick him on accident.

The candle on the coffee table is lit and I watch the flame dance. All the lights are off, and we watch the setting sun turn the living room a soft orange-pink colour until Dad arrives to drop Judith off. We're babysitting. He puts her upstairs in her room and tells us, "She's sleeping. Be good. Don't wait up," because Oliver is allowed to stay over tonight.

I must be tired because I don't remember anything after that, just that, very slowly, I realise I can hear something. But it's dark now. Pitch black. I've been asleep for a while. There's a blanket over me. The thing I can hear is an instrument, I realise. My back is turned away from the room and my face is buried into the couch, alone on it, and for a while I'm pretty content listening to the music; a tune I soon become fairly sure is _You Are My Sunshine_.

Whoever is playing is awkward and inept... unhandy. But in a way that I can tell they know what they're supposed to be doing but just can't quite do it – I guess this is a symptom of losing a hand. The tune is messy and stops mid-strum and tries different chords and verses over again when it's screwed up, pausing for long moments, trying again and again until it sounds right. It sounds _good, _actually: soft and quiet and smooth.

I almost fall back asleep, but then I get to thinking about the fact that it is Oliver playing the music, all soft and quiet comforting and smooth. . .

I turn my head.

He's sitting on the armchair across from me, one leg tucked under him. He's frowning down at the ukulele, tapping his tongue against his teeth in concentration while his fingers shift along the neck of the instrument to the tune. His arm, however. . .

Oliver is smart, I know this, but I'd never expected him to come up with something like this – something so simple and nerdy and brilliantly effective. He's found the masking tape, and from what I can see, he's sort of taped it over a sock on his arm, and at the very end, taped there, is a guitar pick.

I'm so impressed I laugh.

The music stops and Oliver drops the ukulele with a clatter, tearing off his invention and hiding it behind him. For a few seconds we stare at each other in total silence. I can't help it as my heart rate picks up, or the way the hair on my arms and neck stand up.

"You don't have to stop," I blurt.

Oliver sets the ukulele down on the coffee table, cheeks glowing while he bundles the tape-sock into a ball and lodges it under the strings. I push the blanket down and sit up. Very quietly, Oliver whispers, "Didn't mean to wake you."

I shrug, point. "You were good."

Oliver blanches in embarrassment.

"Musical entrepreneur," I compliment, and this time he scoffs. I chuckle. "Really, you were good."

Oliver gets up, sits next to me, and jostles our palms to get me to shut up. I don't. . .

"Mellefless? No, um, mell... mellifluous," I say. Oliver is confused so I explain: "means, a nice, sweet sound. Nell – she said it once when we heard one of Deanna's orchestra playlists."

Oliver kisses my forehead, inhaling, like he just really needed to. My eyes are closed, but when I open them I see how worried he looks. I try to distract him.

"How many songs do you know?" I ask, presenting my palm.

_A LOT_

He taps his skull; this must mean he doesn't remember them so well anymore.

"How'd you learn?" I ask. "Did Patrick teach you?"

Oliver shakes his head, spells: _YOUTUBE_

He shrugs.

GUESSING MOSTLY

I grin.

"Sounded like you just gotta get used to it – not having a hand," I say, and Oliver's expression only falls a little before I quickly add: "But still, you handled it pretty impressively."

I almost smiles, but doesn't.

"Where'd you find it?" I ask after a second. Oliver points at the pantry under the staircase, then takes my hand, opening my palm and spelling out with his thumb: _TRY NOT TO WORR_—but I take away my hand and say, "Let's talk about something else. Let's do something else, and not worry at all, for a while."

I pull us up from the couch, stand close, chest to chest and staring, and I'm thinking, _Sometimes, Oliver, I look at you, and I just think. . . you are full of Ventolin and hope and big brown eyes, and I love you so much._

My hands find his waist, pulling all of us together, and he drapes his arms over my shoulders and leans into me, pressing our foreheads. We're swaying, slow dancing. The song is still in my head so I start humming, and after a few minutes, I start singing, too. . .

_"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine."_

I don't sing well – I don't sing at all, so I trail, embarrassed. Oliver jerks his chin and our lips brush and our eyes are locked.

"Should I stop?" I whisper. He shakes his head, then tucks his face into the crook of my neck. "Okay," I whisper. . .

_"You make me happy when skies are grey.  
You never know, dear, how much I love you,  
please don't take my sunshine away."_

I'm scratchy and terrible but Oliver doesn't seem to mind.

_"The other night, dear, as I lay sleeping,  
I dreamt I held you in my arms.  
When I awoke, dear, I was mistaken,  
so I hung my head, and cried_.

_You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,  
you make me happy when skies are grey.  
You never know, dear, how much I love you,  
please don't take my sunshine away."_

He whispers, "I love you. . ." and I think about how alive we are, and how much I want to kiss him, and how much I might as well go ahead and do it so I do. When he kisses me back it all makes sense. I don't know how else to explain it. It just does. Everything does with Oliver. Nothing ever makes sense without him.

I tell him I love him, too, and by then we're upstairs and his back is stretched along his bed and we've lost all our clothes. Lightning bolts are catching fire to the curtains, setting the whole house alight, and I can't think about anything or anyone except him because I'm in an Oliver hurricane, focussed on him. Just him. We haven't been together like this since he had two hands. He's self-conscious about it, and it makes him awkward and uncomfortable and distracted, but I tell him I love him again, and I tell him how much that's never going to change, and then Oliver kisses me so hard I die. For a short while we're forgetting about everything but each other, dying and dying and dying, and it takes a long time to come down from. Our temporary oblivion. But when we do I think my chest is blowing up. His, too; making room for the day one of our hearts climb out and run away together.

"I'd die without you," Oliver tells me, but it leaves his mouth like, "Close your eyes."

"What's worse is that I know you mean it," I say back, but the rest of the world would've heard, "Okay."

* * *

**Oliver's POV**

We don't wake up of our own accord. . .

A dog is barking non-stop in the distance.

"Why won't it stop?" Carl asks drowsily. He rolls over and climbs off of me so we can look out the window. "Is it Bean?"

I nod. I can recognise his bark compared to the other few dogs here. I can also tell what his barks usually mean. His regular barks are excitable with short gaps between, and if he's being aggressive (usually towards Carl) his bark's snappy and low and threatening, and if he's worried, either because Penelope isn't around or he can sense someone's upset, he'll bark quietly and quickly to get your attention, like a whimper. But not this time. This time his barks are loud, louder than I've ever heard, growling each immediately after the other.

He's warning us.

I get a bad feeling, but I try to push it away. We must not have slept long, Carl still looks tired. Judith starts crying downstairs from the noise, so Carl and I tidy up and get dressed – slowly, because I need help.

"Do you think the meeting is still going on?" Carl asks. But I don't know so I don't respond. In the next room, Judith's still crying. Carl coos to her and calms her down and I go to the window and check outside. The first house's lights are all off, but I see the backdoor snap shut. At first I think it's swinging in the breeze; left open because we don't lock doors here, but then I see a shadow move across the kitchen floor.

"You see anything?"

Bean's barking doesn't stop.

"Oliver," Carl insists, "see anything?"

Nervously, I shake my head and go downstairs. I'm not sure if Penelope or Enid went to the meeting. Mikey didn't, and I assume Ron's home taking care of his brother. I know that my group is either at the meeting or working. Carl comes down a few minutes later with our knives, pushing mine into my hands. He left Judith in her crib upstairs.

Casually, I point next door.

"What?" he says. "Left something?"

After a second I nod. My heart is pounding. I think Carl can tell and I think he'll say something but something else smashes in the distance.

"What was that?" Carl mutters.

I don't respond.

"You saw something out there, didn't you?"

I'm already backing away to the door, palm against his chest and pushing when he tries to follow me. I can feel his heartbeat. It's fast.

"I'm coming with you, Oliver."

I point upstairs.

"She'll be fine."

I shake my head, and Carl grits his teeth angrily, but I can feel him relenting because he knows his dad would flip if he knew he'd left her alone. Plus, he knows I'll come right back. . .

It's safe here, I keep telling myself while I leave the second house and wander across the lawn. I know something is very wrong when I hear footsteps I don't recognise, and I have enough time to swing my ass around and pin my back against the wall before Pete marches right out of the door beside me.

My knife is up, shaking, and I see the fury on his face. . . and the stolen katana in his hand.

Bean's still barking and growling desperately in the distance, so Pete can't hear how fast I'm breathing. He walks down the street and when I come down from my terror rush, I'm sprinting across backyards towards the meeting. It's longer this way but I'm going twice Pete's speed. If he sees me, he'll kill me. I know it. Sometimes you can see it in people. I saw it in the Governor. It's a way you look when you don't care who gets hurt. Pete is going to kill Rick and anybody who stands in his way is going to die, too. But not if I can stop it, first.

I stop in my tracks when I'm passing Penelope and Enid's house. Bean is inside, barking at me desperately through the screen door. But it's not him I'm looking at. . .

A corpse.

She's sprawled across the grass, face down. Short red hair is scattered around a bashed in skull, and I'm collapsing to my knees to pull her over. But it's just a walker. Not Penelope. I think I'll burst out crying, and I pretty much do, but I have to go. Running out of time. There was a struggle here and recently, too, by the large wet blood stains in the grass.

_How did they get in?  
**Could be more.  
**Carl and Judith.  
**No, they're okay. They're inside. **  
I have to–  
**Oliver, the meeting.**_

I nod, turn. . . and walk right into another walker. In reflex, I lash out and slice it's throat in two, but it doesn't stop it from lurching forward and knocking us both to the ground. My knife flies out of my grip and cold blood dribbles down my front. It's thrashing, snapping. I don't have enough hands.

I

don't

have

enough

hands.

I hear something tear, and then suddenly my arms are empty and Bean is ripping the walker apart. He has it on its knees, paws wrapped around its back and teeth dug into the back of its neck. He digs in like it's a bowl of kibble, tearing apart spinal cord and vertebra and tendons until the walker collapses into a heap, dead.

The meeting is only a block away, so I get up, grab my knife, and run. Bean is faster and gets there first. I can hear talking, Rick mostly. A crowd of Alexandrians is blocking the entrance and I can't shout to get Rick's attention. I crouch, see through legs that there's a dead walker by the fire, hear Rick say, "It got inside on its own. They always will – the dead, and the living. Because _we're_ in here."

I push through people, leaving blood on people accidentally. They can smell it, too. Bean found Penelope, and he, too, is covered in blood. I haven't spoken to Penelope since what I said to her this morning, and what she said to me. When I tug on her sleeve, she startles. Her eyes are welling, afraid. Really afraid. My own expression must look the same.

I try to get Rick's attention but he's makes a calming motion with his hands and tells me it's okay. He thinks I'm only so terrified because of the walker I clearly just took out. He thinks I just need to listen to what he has to say. He thinks there isn't a crazy mad-man coming to cut him into little pieces right in front of us.

"And the ones out there," he's telling us all, "they'll hunt us. They'll find us. They'll try to use us. They'll try to kill us. But we'll kill them. We'll survive, I'll show you how."

He's doing it, what Carl said. He's telling them in a way that they'll hear him. I've moved to Carol, but she's holding my hand and telling me to calm down. Rick is still talking. . .

"You know, I was thinking. I was thinkin' – how many of you do I have to kill, to save your lives? But I'm not gonna do that. You're gonna change. I'm not sorry for what I said last night. I'm sorry for not sayin' it sooner. You're not ready. But you have to be. Right now. You have to be."

Deanna and Reg are stood behind him, focussed frowns on their faces.

"Luck runs out," Rick says, and now I've grabbed his sleeve. "Oliver, it can wait."

I'm shaking my head frantically, and Rick is catching on but in that moment Pete Anderson rounds the wall opposite us, emerging from the shadows like an angry poltergeist.

"You're

not

one

of

us!"

Jessie's shaking her head. Her husband is furious; shoulders hunched, teeth bared, eyes red, and stolen katana in hand.

"YOU'RE NOT ONE OF US!"

"Pete, you don't wanna do this," Reg rushes up to him, taking his shoulder. He's shoved away. "Just stop."

"Get the hell away from me, Rick," Pete growls, not moving his eyes off him. He's drunk. Everyone is uneasy on their feet and I tighten my grip on my knife. I'm sweating, even though I can see my breath. Bean growls, his hackles raised, teeth baring, only held back by Penelope's grip around his collar.

"Reg," Deanna warns. "Reg."

Rick steps forward, but Carol warns him with a quick and quiet, "Not now."

"Stop," Reg tries again.

"Get out of my way!"

The katana comes up.

"GET AWAY!"

Reg is hit by lightning, or that's what it looks like. The way he jerks back. But no, electricity doesn't split your throat in two. Electricity doesn't send red siphoning out between your fingers so fast you can't hold onto it all.

Deanna screams.

I've seen death before. I have. Almost everyone has now. We stare into Death's face and Death is always the one who blinks first, but we never win the contest.

Abraham rushes past me in a gust of wind and then he's knocking Pete to the ground. Jessie is screaming, too, and Death is blinking blinking blinking only it's Reg and he's dying dying _dead _in his wife's arms. "OH GOD!" she wails. "NO, MY LOVE! NO! NO! No, my love!"

"This is _HIM_!" Pete screams. Bean is on him, teeth clamped into bicep. Abraham has his other arm, yanked at an odd painful angle behind Pete's back, his face in the porch brick. He screams again.

"SHUT UP!" Abraham shouts.

"_THIS IS HIM!_ It's HIM!"

Bean shakes his face and Pete erupts.

"THIS IS HIM!"

Penelope is staggering forward, stuttering for Bean but he isn't listening because he can't hear her. Her shoulders are bunched and she's covering her face and I wrap my arms around her so she won't collapse, because I know what's about to happen. . .

"Rick," I hear, and I look at Deanna. Her face is wet and bloody and scrunched up like paper. . . "Do it."

So he does.

The _BANG! _doesn't end Pete's life, it's the bullet that comes with it. I watch in split his skull in three pieces, and this time Death blinks only once. Penelope startles in my arms and I have to hold on to her tightly. Jessie collapses. Rick glares down the barrel of his gun, blood dripping and his face half hidden behind flame light. I shiver.

"Rick?"

Three figures are stood in the place Pete came in by. Two I recognise; Daryl and Aaron, but the third man is a stranger. Only he can't have been. He was who said Rick's name. He's middle aged, around Daryl's height, with buzzcut black hair and a groomed beard. His skin id dark brown and he's wearing a cream trench coat and black gloves and a backpack, holding a long, sturdy-looking stick in his fist.

After everything that just happened, it takes a few moments for everything to sink in. Rick looks so horrified I wonder if he might book it. He recognises him, clearly, but he also doesn't at the same time. I don't know how to explain. Pete's blood is still running a track down my face. But I think I know who this is, from the story Carl told me of the day he, Michonne and his father went back to King County. The day they took the orange duffel from the dead hitch-hiker's remains.

It's the mad man.

The mad man with the snares.

The mad man with the dead son and the wife he couldn't put down.

"Morgan."

* * *

I'm back at the house, crashing through the front door.

"Oliver?"

I drop my knife and fly up the staircase towards his voice. Judith is crying again. When I see him, baby sister in his arms, I almost climb up him and around him and inside of him because I'm so relieved, and I'm grabbing his face and staring into his eyes and breathing too hard.

"What happened?" Carl is gasping. "I heard gunshots. Was it the meeting? Where's Dad, is he okay?"

I nod frantically.

"What happened?"

I'm so panicky all I can do for a moment is cling around his shoulders.

"P – Pete," I whisper into his ear. Carl just holds me tighter. Judith is still crying. "Stole Michonne's katana." I wince, but keep going: "killed Reg. I had to come back – I had to come back for you."

"Reg's dead?"

I nod, panting, wincing. My throat is throbbing. . . "Your dad shot Pete. A-and Morgan's here. Daryl and Aaron found him outside."

"Who found him?"

"Daryl," I whisper. "Aaron."

Carl's breath is shaking so we sit on the couch to calm down. To comfort Judith, I run my thumb down her nose and she eventually stops crying. Carol gets back a few minutes after this, Maggie too. They made soup and we eat and sit for a while until I'm not trembling anymore. Noah comes along at some point and we have to tell him what happened, and then he remembers what he came back for in the first place and tells us that Tara woke up. Carl and I head over. With everything that just happened, hearing Tara's awake is like being reminded colour exists. When we arrive at the clinic she is sat up in bed. Rosita is here. Maggie, Glenn, Sasha and Eugene, too.

Eugene is beaming at her.

"Uhh... Does somebody wanna send Noah in here to save me?" Tara asks.

"I'm here," he tells her, and wraps her arms around her.

"And where's my Romeo?" Tara says then, and Carl has around half a second to blush like a tomato before I'm letting go of his hand and swallowing her up in my arms. She holds out an arm, says, "You, too, Romeo two-point-o," and Carl is hugging her, too. I see the glare he gives me over her shoulder. I may have neglected telling him she knew about the Shakespearean recital that night. . .

_Oops._

Noah laughs. I get the feeling she told him about it.

"Hey, what's up with your arm, man?" she asks when she feels the bandage on her back. She didn't notice it before, so when I pull back, trying to make it look not so... gone, it takes her a few seconds to realise what she's looking at. But when she does, her hands come up to her mouth and she bursts into tears. She tries to apologise, but I tell her to put her apology up her nose, and she laughs, and I cry, and we hug again.

And I think it'll be alright.

It's on our way back when Carl sees Enid. She was sat up on the gazebo next to the pond messing with a lighter—pretty sure it's Jessie's. I wave, and she waves back. Carl kisses my forehead, tells me, "I'll be home later." The gate's been closed and everybody knows they need to keep an eye out for any possible straggler walkers lurking around, so, quietly, I nod and press our foreheads for a second, then head home while he goes to talk to her. In truth, they probably won't talk. They'll probably sit in quiet, saying all the words without saying any words at all, and maybe he'll put his hand on hers and she'll let him, because they'll both just understand.

And I think it'll be alright.

I wait for him, sitting on the second house's porch steps reading _Philosopiæ Naturalis Principia Mathematica_ by Isaac Newton. Earlier, when I got here, Carol pushed it into my hand and didn't say why. Whatever, I like math. I only look up when I hear footsteps. Carl, I assume at first, but it's Ron. The street is dark and all I can see by is the dim glow of the porch lights. I stand up, stare, and every cell in my body stops moving. **_His father just died, Oliver._** I brace myself – for what, I'm not sure. But in the end he just heads up his house's steps. I watched him stop at his front door and I realise he's crying very hard. I've never seen Ron cry. **_His father just died, Oliver. . ._** It's odd how one person can be feared and hated and loved and lost all at the same time. That's probably not even scratching the surface of how Ron feels about his father now. When Ron turns to me, suddenly, I hold my breath and watch him march over to the edge of his porch, directly opposite me. It's a ferocious showdown with nothing more than eyes as weapons. Then he pulls off his beanie and throws it across to me. I catch it. It's one of mine that he borrowed a few weeks ago. I throw it back, and when he catches it I motion for him to hold on to it, and without a word he turns on his heel and is gone again.

And, I can't tell if it's going to be alright this time.

* * *

**Notes**

Sequel out now :)

Oliver only neatened the flowers to reference to the AU, because yes, in the AU, Oliver works as a Florist with Dale :)

Anyway...

Angst, love, death and a new face all in one chapter! Whoo! Super thank you to **DarthGranola** and **Ana-DaughterofHades **(DG mentioned you a while back) for the suggestion with the ukulele and song part. It was so great, thanks guys xxx

There you have it, The Easy Part. Thank you for sticking around xxx

As always,  
Happy reading xxx :_)_

* * *

**Replies:**

**Rolo-chan** Too short? Shit, I was getting worried my chapters were getting too long. I don't blame you for not liking her after what she said to him. Nell wasn't faking though. She's built this horrible wall against him, because he seems to always weasle his way into her emotions, but he sort of broke her with what he said, seeing through her front, calling her _just a girl, _because that's all she is. An afraid little girl. But yes, Oliver definitely feels lesser than her. As, like he said, he, too, is just an afraid little boy. And he's always seen her as a big sister kind of friend. But you're right, they're not childhood friends anymore. And haha, yeah, his and Carl's talk made me laugh, too. And to answer, _"Has Oliver__ever thought about that?" _I actually don't think so. I think, by accident, I've kind of made Oliver rather demi-sexual. So, Carl in this, and Carl and Penelope in the AU. I think he finds other men and women attractive, but he just isn't into them until he's gotten to know them well. Maybe. I dunno. Oliver's just Oliver. And yeah, out in the woods with Enid, he was totally caught up in the moment. He was vulnerable and scared and, like you said, glassy. And aw! That's so nice! I love how close Oliver and Judy are. They're so in-tune with each other, I just love them. And yes, you beautiful human being, you actually noticed. I love you for that. Because yes, Rosa was four/five months pregnant when she died. So Em was in there :,( But yes, I actually have a plan for that, and thank you I'll take your suggestion into account. Ugh, he'd be so heartbroken! And no! NO more AU's! I can't handle it! It's eating me! Hahaha xD But, maybe in the last chapter of the AU I'll hint the outbreak about to start happening hahaha unlikely though x And finally, thank you soooooo much. I can't even express how rewarding your reviews are! It seriously lifts my day like a bloody drug! Ps. HOLY FUCK I'M ADDICTED TO TOKYO GHOUL.

**BloodGutsandChocolatePudding **Thank you so much


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